The Ecology of Early Deafness. Guides to Fashioning Environments and Psychological Assessments 9780231893336

Table of contents :
Contents
An Introductory Comment
Part One. The Environmental Imperative: A Prologue
1. An Ecological Perspective
2. Acoustically Impaired Environments: Psychological Correlates
Part Two. Prelinguistic Deafness: Key Fashioning Environments
3. Early Environmental Influences
4. The Language Environment
5. Educational Environments: Options and Issues
Part Three. Products of The “Soundless World”
6. Sketches from Life
7. Sketches from Research
Part Four. The Psychological Examination
8. Psychology and the Deaf: Background
9. Psychological Examiners: Special Qualifications
10. Methods of Psychological Examining: A Review
Part Five. Examination Guides
Introduction
11. Infant Assessment
12. Examination of Children and Youth
13. Examination at the Adult Level
14. Psychological Reporting
A Concluding Comment
Epilogue
Appendixes
Appendix A. The Human Ear and Hearing
Appendix B. Types and Causes of Impaired Hearing
Appendix C. Manual Methods of Communication
Appendix D. Experimental Interpreter-Rating Form
Appendix E. Bronfenbrenner Hearing Attitude Scale
Appendix F. Inventory Guide for Case History Information on Deaf Children and Adults
Appendix G. Psychological Report Form
Appendix H. Questionnaire Used in Survey of Psychological Tests and Practices with the Deaf
Appendix I. A Guide to Test Publishers and Distributors
Appendix J. Publisher and Distributor Directory
Appendix K. Information Directories and References
Author Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

THE E C O L O G Y OF EARLY D E A F N E S S Guides to Fashioning Environments and Psychological Assessments

THE ECOLOGY OF EARLY DEAFNESS Guides to Fashioning Environments and Psychological Assessments EDNA SIMON LE VINE

C O L U M B I A U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS New York 1981

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Levine, Edna Simon The ecology of early deafness. Includes bibliographies and index. 1. Deafness—Psychological aspects. 2. Man— Influence of environment. 3. Human ecology. 1. Title. [DNLM: 1. Deafness—Psychology. 2. Environment. W V 270 L665e] HV2395.L39 362.4'2'019 80-27138 ISBN 0-231-03886-0

Columbia University Press New York Guildford, Surrey

Copyright © 1981 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America

To Jean Leigh and Mary Switzer Of cherished memory

CONTENTS

An Introductory Comment

Part One

xiii

The Environmental Imperative: A Prologue

1. An Ecological Perspective

3

Background

5

Illustrative Evidence and Theory

7

Man-Milieu: Communicative Language-Links

11

Semantics of Communicative Sounds

16

Summary Comment

21

References

22

2. Acoustically Impaired Environments: Psychological Correlates

27

Progressive Deafness

28

Sudden Profound Deafness

34

Congenital Deafness

39

The Environment of Societal Attitudes

42

Summary Comment

45

References

45

Part Two

Prelinguistic Deafness: Key Fashioning Environments

3. Early Environmental Influences

51

The Infant Environment

52

The Soundless Environment: Pre-detection Phase

55

viii

CONTENTS

Parent-Child Relations

57

The Environment of Labels and Stereotypes

64

References

65

4. The Language Environment

67

Verbal Language Forms

67

The American Sign Language

92

Methodical Signs

100

Manually Coded English

102

Interpreters and Interpreted Language

104

Summary

107

References

109

5. Educational Environments: Options and Issues

119

Unresolved Determinants

120

Mandated Planning and Accountability

120

Educational Settings

122

Educational Issues

125

Summary

143

References

145

Part Three Products of The "Soundless World" 6. Sketches from Life 155 Population Heterogeneity

155

Principal Groupings

156

Deaf Clients: The Counselor's Dilemma

158

Community Living

166

Deaf Leadership Power

175

Summary Comment

180

References

180

7. Sketches from Research

183

Personality Studies

183

Personality Theorizing

190

ix

Contents

Discussion

196

References

200

Part Four T h e Psychological Examination 8. Psychology and the Deaf: Background

207

The Pioneers

207

Era of Search for the I.Q.

209

The Flowering of Psychological Services

214

References

218

9. Psychological Examiners: Special Qualifications

222

Services

223

Competencies

225

Points of Special Emphasis

227

References

228

10. Methods of Psychological Examining: A Review

229

Psychological Tests and Testing

230

Observation

234

Interview

237

Case History

239

References

241

Part Five

Examination Guides

Introduction 11. Infant Assessment

247 249

Case History

250

Interview

251

The Developmental Examination

254

Observation

256

References

257

X

CONTENTS

12. Examination of Children and Youth

258

Case History

258

Psychological Testing

264

Observation

301

Interview

306

Summary Comment

309

References

310

13. Examination at the Adult Level

313

History Data

314

Psychological Testing

318

Interview

328

Observation

336

References

338

14. Psychological Reporting

340

Psychological Report Categories

342

Report Sample

343

References

345

A Concluding Comment Epilogue

347 349

Allen E. Sussman and Barbara A. Brauer

349

Appendixes

Appendix Appendix Appendix Appendix Appendix Appendix

A. B. C. D. E. F.

The Human Ear and Hearing Types and Causes of Impaired Hearing Manual Methods of Communication Experimental Interpreter-Rating Form Bronfenbrenner Hearing Attitude Scale Inventory Guide for Case History Information on Deaf Children and Adults Appendix G. Psychological Report Form Appendix H. Questionnaire Used in Survey of Psychological Tests and Practices with the Deaf

355 357 359 361 366 371 382

385

Contents

xi

Appendix I. A Guide to Test Publishers and Distributors

395

Appendix J. Publisher and Distributor Directory

399

Appendix K. Information Directories and References

401

Author Index

403

Subject Index

411

AN I N T R O D U C T O R Y COMMENT

THE QUESTION is reasonably a s k e d , w h y a book concerned with deaf persons begins as this one does, with a section on environment. A s a rule, the principal f o c u s of such publications is on " p r o b l e m s of the d e a f " : problems of behavior, of rehabilitation and habilitation, of communication, research, and more. W e f r e e l y admit the importance of these topics, and in fact have included them in this volume. But at the same time, w e submit that there is more to people than problems, and more to behavior than appears on the surface. W e submit further that this " m o r e " is to be found in the influences that shape the human condition, whether it be deaf or n o n d e a f , and that are subsumed in the concept of " e n v i r o n m e n t . " Environment is an elusive concept that cannot be divided into neat little informational packets f o r ready consumption. That it exerts influences upon behavior has long been conceded by the behavioral disciplines. But it is only in recent times that environment has e m e r g e d as a p o w e r to be reckoned with. T h e revelations of e c o l o g y and of disadvantaged minorities h a v e had much to do with this development. W e still do not know the dynamics that tie individual to environment, but both society and the sciences are c o m i n g to recognize the authority of the environmental imperative. T h e evidence is unassailable. A s a result, a remarkably steady shift is taking place from f o c u s on the person to f o c u s on environment. Not only is the shift gaining increasing adherents among behavioral scientists, it also has inspired the founding of specialized branches of study. E v e n p s y c h o l o g y , long addicted to focusing on " t h e i n d i v i d u a l , " is joining the m o v e toward a clearer understanding of the person through a deeper understanding of his shaping environment. F o r those of us grappling with the complexities of behavior fashioned in a soundless environment,

it is likely

that present understandings

will

be

broadened by a similar m o v e . T o w a r d this end, the behavior-environment

xiv

AN INTRODUCTORY

COMMENT

linkage is examined in the beginning chapters of this book, including the behavioral impact of acoustically impaired environments. The focus of discussion then moves to the target populations of the volume—the deaf population; and to the issues, deficits, options and conflicts commonly found in " d e a f " environments. What emerges from the review is the startling match between deficits usual to such environments and deficits common to many of the occupants. The implications of this phenomenon are carried over into the second major part of the book, which deals with psychological examination and assessment. To prepare the ground, brief orientative sections provide a historical scan of psychology and the deaf, the competencies required of psychologists to the deaf, and the nature and rationale of the four basic techniques of psychological examining—the case history, testing, observation, and interview. Guides are then offered to help psychological examiners through some of the difficulties of applying these techniques to a deaf clientele. Separate chapters deal with their use at three age levels—infancy, school-age and youth, and adult. For each level, strengths and weaknesses of the techniques are summarized, special strategies suggested, instruments listed, and problems noted. To flesh out and humanize the guides, illustrations and anecdotes from life are included here and there in the discussion. In fact, throughout the book, I have reached out to those directly involved in the deaf experience—to deaf persons and to parents of deaf children—for anecdotal material, for quoted or directly expressed views, for their experiences and reactions, and finally for the Epilogue to this book in order to bring its contents as well as the reader closer to the realities of being deaf. An effort has also been made to present both sides of debated issues insofar as space and available materials permit, with the special aim of challenging the reader's independent deliberations and decision-reaching. Efforts have also been made to disclose the backgrounds of some of the current "innovations" in habilitation and education, whose roots often reach far back in history. It is this sort of knowledge that distinguishes scholar from technician and stimulates researchers to move forward instead of blindly rediscovering the past or statically focusing on the known or the obvious. A strong implication emerging from this book is that the psychological examination is, as often as not, an assessment of a deaf individual's shaping environment as much as of the individual per se. The guiding thought is that an environmentally expanded frame of reference will give greater scope to those who serve deaf persons to follow unexplored paths of inquiry, acquire the sensitivities to perceive new relationships, clear up mysteries that have

An Introductory Comment

xv

hitherto gone unsolved, and, above all, to recognize their own unique position as "environmental influences" in the lives of deaf individuals and as powerful advocates for improvement and reform in the environments that fashion deaf persons.

Part One

THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE: A PROLOGUE

1 An Ecological Perspective We come into the world as a bundle of possibilities bequeathed to us by our parents and other ancestors. Our nurture comes from the world about us. Dunn and Dobzhansky, Heredity, Race, and Society

over the fate of humans in ravaged environments has generated an unprecedented burst of inquiry into the relationship between man and milieu. The focus of the biological sciences is on the forces that maintain the human animal in a state of balanced give-and-take with the natural environment and its other occupants. Of major concern to the behavioral and the social sciences is adaptation to the distinctive human environments that house mankind. What are the cohesive forces that link human environments and human beings? What are the dynamics of interplay? M O U N T I N G ALARM

The multidisciplinary meeting ground for such issues is the evolving discipline of human ecology (Ehrlich, Ehrlich, and Holdren, 1972; Hawley, 1950; Meadows et al., 1972). Although diverse views still require synthesis into integrated theory, there are numbers of premises on which the disciplines see eye to eye. The one of central importance to this volume is behaviorally oriented. It involves the cycle of deficits in which impaired human environments lead to impaired psychological environments; impaired psychological environments to disturbed human behavior; and disturbed human behavior back again to the cycle of deficits but with magnified impact. The problem of survival in ravaged natural environments is matched by the problem of survival in impaired psychological environments. Most disciplines in the sciences and humanities are taking ecology's warnings to heart. Even psychology, long a lip-service advocate of "the influences of environment," is coming to acknowledge the power of the environmental imperative (Maloney and Ward, 1973; T. Miller, 1974; Schaar, 1976). In turning to ecology for leads, the disciplines are experiencing an entirely novel view of humankind's place in nature's scheme of things.

4

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL

IMPERATIVE

The intricate details of ecological theory are documented in the literature (e.g., Odum, 1971; Winton, 1972). Simply expressed, ecology views Home sapiens as simply another life-form, subject to the same laws of survival that hold for all life-forms and that involve such tight reciprocal ties to environmental inputs and ecological checks and balances that "man, like all other living creatures, is both part and product of his own environment" (Caldwell, 1971, p. 25). The shift in perspective from the person as a more or less independent unit to the person as a part of environment is not easy to grasp. It is even more difficult to apply, particularly for specialists in human service and above all for those who work with the physically disabled. In the latter case, the observed environment of the disabled appears precisely the same as of the nondisabled. It takes a deliberate effort of the imagination to visualize the environmental havoc a physical disability can create: the featureless world of the blind; the soundless world of the deaf; the distorted world of the crippled, shrunk to the limitations of physical deformity. The only visible analogues of these environmental distortions are the behavior deficits the disabled individual may display. In consequence, these seemingly independent human units convey the impression of being responsible for their own problems. "Blaming the victim" is the way Ryan puts it (1971). The disabled environment that houses the "victim," shapes his behavior, and spawns its deficits remains unseen. The shift in perspective from individual to environment introduces other issues in human service. Now that environment has become known as a force to be reckoned with, bothersome questions begin to arise for service specialists in all disciplines. For example: How feasible is it to treat maladjusted individuals while ignoring their sick environment? Wherein lies the greater promise for sweeping human adjustment, with rehabilitating clients or with rehabilitating society? Is taking action to eradicate the social conditions that breed disablement appropriate to the goals and functions of rehabilitation? Gellman (1973) calls particular attention to this last question as a growing issue in rehabilitation. The question leads to another: Is taking action to eliminate educational conditions that breed scholastic failure appropriate to the goals and functions of habilitation? Difficulties in applying new concepts to old problems can be enormous. As Caldwell remarks, "To look at familiar things from an unfamiliar point of view is always a difficult and troublesome experience" (1971, p. 2). It is particularly so when the new knowledge needed for new answers is still in short supply. But, using the field of the deaf as an example, the difficulties can be no greater than the frustrations of looking at the same familiar problems decade after decade, from the same point of view, and finding nothing ahead but the same familiar obstacles to their solution. With this in mind,

5

An Ecological Perspective

the concept, " e n v i r o n m e n t " is examined here as an introduction to the environments that shape the behaviors and problems of deaf persons.

Background The concept of mankind as a product of environment is not new. Dubos (1968) reminds us that it goes back some 2,500 years to the Greek physician-philosopher Hippocrates, who vigorously endorsed the view. The belief was carried over the centuries in the writings of various visionary philosophers and theorists, and acquired prominence when its advocates clashed head on with the social Darwinists of the nineteenth century over the relative importance of heredity and environment as shapers of human behavior. The ensuing nature-nurture controversy (Hogben, 1933; Pastore, 1949) ushered in a period of intense activity on the part of psychologists of the 1920s and 1930s. The focus was on mental ability; the key issue was whether heredity or environment determined level of intelligence; and the instruments of investigation were chiefly mental tests (Schieffelin and Schwesinger, 1930). Evidence on the issues was gathered mainly from two types of studies: one focusing on genetically related children (twins and siblings) reared in different environments; the other, on unrelated children reared together in common environments. Studies were also conducted with children whose parents came from different occupational and economic levels, and with subjects of different racial and national origins. The investigations led to no definitive conclusion. Except for a few diehards, psychologists generally acknowledged that heredity and environment operate together as determinants of mental ability. Emphasizing the importance of environmental influences were Freeman and his associates (Freeman, 1934); stressing the importance of heredity were Burks and her coworkers (Burks, 1928). Shuttleworth (1935) tried to break the seeming stalemate by establishing what percentage of a person's mental ability is hereditarily determined, and what percentage environmentally determined. The effort yielded no valid results, hence no determination. Time, ecological devastation, and the socioeconomically disadvantaged accomplished what Shuttleworth's statistical approach failed to do; that is, to provide clear evidence of the power (if not the exact proportion) of environmental influence in shaping the human condition, as demonstrated in life and in research (Bloom, Davis, and Hess, 1965; Margolin and Goldin, 1969). Victims of environmental deprivation became dramatic advocates for psychological environmentalists, and inspired a new surge of inquiry into human adaptation and environment-behavior interplay. This development did not end the nature-nurture controversy—debate continues to this day (Gage, 1972; Jensen, 1969, 1972; D. Miller, 1978;

6

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL

IMPERATIVE

Shockley, 1972). Nor did it still the voices of genetically oriented behavior investigators. Their arguments against the growing trend toward a purely environmental psychology found a forum in a relatively new specialty, behavior genetics (Fuller and Thompson, 1960). As the name implies, the broad aim of behavior genetics is to track down the genetic roots of behavior traits and variations. However, some consider it a loosely organized field of study that has not yet firmed up its goals or investigative approaches. As Vale remarks, it is rather in the position of a "genetical gadfly about the head of a recalcitrant environmental p s y c h o l o g y " (1973, p. 880). Nevertheless, it is a gadfly to be reckoned with. In the course of this new surge of inquiry into environment-behavior dynamics, the question inevitably arose: What is environment? Research attempted an answer by way of experimental studies of various environmental isolates such as light, heat, sound, and other physical components (Environmental Abstracts, 1965), and of single responding behavior variables (Sells, 1963). The studies supplied interesting information about the isolates, but little about environment. As far as behavioral scientists were concerned, environment remained a dim, amorphous influence that eluded conceptualization and evaded management. Psychologists seized, therefore, upon the more tangible object in the environment-behavior dyad, namely, the individual, with psychological tests rather than environmental influences serving as the major guide to behavioral insights, predictions, and change—and this despite the weaknesses of the practice (Bersoff, 1973; Cronbach, 1975). In this context, the individual amounts to little more than a receptacle for behavior traits and personality patterns. As for environment, it was accorded passing recognition as a contributor to the human condition, but for all practical purposes, it remained—and still remains—the "neglected child of psychological a s s e s s m e n t " (T. Miller, 1974). T h e impotence of the individual/test formula was borne in upon psychology when the increasing numbers of humans in need, in poverty and disability, in degraded environments, and in mutiny and despair overflowed the boundaries of its traditional percepts and procedures. Obviously, for psychology to carry out its professional role in the midst of a techno-cultural revolution demanded new perspectives; old boundaries had to be stretched to accommodate new problems; outmoded rituals, scrapped. Propelled in part by this realization and in part by mounting ecological evidence that degraded physical environments mean degraded psychological environments, psychology at last began its move into the mysteries of environment (Craik, 1973; Wohwill, 1970). Here it finds itself in the company of many other disciplines, all equally concerned with mankind's fate in a world in chaos and all engaged in ex-

An Ecological Perspective

7

amining the dynamics of interplay between human behavior and human environment. Although differing in approach and perspective, they stand in basic agreement that people "cannot achieve and maintain physical and mental health if conditions are not suitable for environmental h e a l t h " (Dubos, 1968, p. 165), and are joined by a common hope of contributing to a determination of what environmental health is and how to achieve it (Caldwell, 1971). That hope is only in the early stages of realization. For one thing, most if not all the disciplines involved are still struggling to conceptualize and assess environment. For another, there is as yet no significant amount of interdisciplinary coupling for a joint approach to key issues. Each specialty tends to pursue an independent line of inquiry, guided by its own concerns, percepts, and procedures. But as findings emerge, there is a striking convergence of evidence concerning the power of the human environment to influence human behavior.

Illustrative Evidence and Theory The path of inquiry into what is commonly thought of as " t h e " environment leads into a maze of complex, dynamically interrelated "co-environm e n t s . " Roughly grouped, these co-environments may be conceptualized as: (1) the natural environment, including geography, topography, climate, atmospheric conditions, and weather patterns; (2) the man-made physical environment of architecture, technology, heating, lighting, ventilation, interior decoration, special settings, etc.; and (3) the sociocultural environment, including cultural patterns and mores, controlling societal institutions, and personal, interpersonal, group, and societal behavior and interactions. Sketchy though these groupings are, they nevertheless hint at the vast dimensions of environmental research. T h e effects on human behavior of selected variables in each of these categories provide the focus for numerous investigations (Insel and Moos, 1974; Moos, 1973). The cumulative findings confirm that behavior is sensitive to a wide assortment of environmental influences. For example, among the components of the natural environment, meteorological influences (Muescher and Ungeheuer, 1961), atmospheric conditions (Sells, Findikyan, and Duke, 1966), and climate have been associated with variations in behavior. In the man-made physical environment, numbers of variables including architecture, physical design, interior decoration, and types of settings have been found to influence behavior (Wohwill and Carson, 1972; Proshansky, 1976). With the broadened realization among environmental researchers that the human members of a setting are also contributors to its characteristics,

8

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE

this research is moving into the social and psychological ecology of human environments (Gibbs, 1979; Rogers-Warren and Warren, 1977; Wicker, 1979), despite many methodological difficulties (Bronfenbrenner, 1976). Ecological Psychology Theory

A unique example of eco-psychological research is the work of Barker (1968) and his associates. They focused on the texture of the human environment, theorizing that human environmental settings possess behavioral as well as physical properties, the former derived from the behavior of the occupying groups. The concept is in line with ecological theory which, as noted, regards the human organism, its behavior, and its setting as composing an ecological unit. Accordingly Barker calls this school of psychology "ecological psychology." Among the questions of concern to ecological psychology are: "What are environments like? How does man's habitat differ, for example, in developed and developing countries, in large and small schools, in glass-walled and windowless office buildings, in integrated and segregated classes? How do environments select and shape the people who inhabit them? What are the structural and dynamic properties of the environments to which people must adapt?" (Barker, 1968, pp. 3 - 4 ) . Answers to such questions obviously require access to real-life rather than laboratory settings, and such were the units selected for study. Termed "behavior settings" by the investigators, they consisted of a standing pattern of group behavior bounded by a nonbehavioral physico-temporal configuration termed the "milieu." The milieus used in the investigation were ordinary community locales such as drugstores, barbershops, various kinds of professional offices, recreation centers, and many other community sites common to a small town in Kansas, which served as the research "laboratory." In order for these milieus to qualify as behavior settings, they had to meet a number of structural and dynamic criteria laid down by the investigators, involving not only the milieu but also the patterns of behavior encompassed. In all, several hundred categories of behavior setting were assessed and classified for both nonbehavioral properties and the related behavior patterns of the occupying groups. Of these, 220 were selected as the researched units. From the findings obtained, the investigators made the startling discovery that it was possible to "predict some aspects of children's behavior more adequately from knowledge of the behavior characteristics of the drugstores, arithmetic classes, and basket-ball games they inhabited than from knowledge of the behavior tendencies of the particular children" (Barker, 1968, p. 4). Similar trends have been reported by other investigators, as cited by Insel and Moos (1974). Based on findings such as these, evolving eco-behavioral theory postu-

An Ecological

Perspective

9

lates that behavior and environment are not independent entities. Rather, organism and environment are reciprocally influencing systems, both of which, in the words of Brunswik, are "hewn basically from the same block" (1957, p. 5). The concept can be summed up as follows: The individual and his environment, equally physical (or " g e o g r a p h i c a l " ) and social, although treated as two separate realities for discussion in fact are one. A person and his context and actions as well as a people and its environment, had best be seen as indivisible. . . . The holistic viewpoint envisions each individual acting in perpetual coordination with his fellows, and all of them in like manner interacting with their surroundings. (Wagner, 1972, p. 100)

Cultural Patterning Theory Support for Wagner's statement comes from a variety of disciplinary investigations of behavior-environment interplay, even studies radically different from the eco-psychological approach. An example is the cultural patterning approach in which data are compiled from studies of mankind through time as obtained from anthropology, archeology, ethnology and ethnography, linguistics, cross-cultural studies, and to a lesser extent from the behavioral sciences. From these perspectives, it becomes possible to trace the unfolding story of the creation of man-made environments, and of the individual's inextricable relationship to them. Simeons scans the making of one such environment in the following sweep of technological accomplishment achieved by puny humans in their determination to outwit the forces of nature as well as their own physical limitations: First [man's "presumptuous b r a i n " ] replaced body hair by the warmth of fire and later skins, clothing, and shelter. It extended the range and strength of m a n ' s arms with spears, clubs, and stones which in due course of time led to the blow-pipe, the dart, the boomerang, the bow and arrow, and finally to firearms. Muscular strength was increased by the invention of the lever, the wheel, the pulley, and then by engines driven by water, wind, and later steam, electricity, oil, and nuclear fission and by such appliances as cranes, pile drivers, steamrollers, and bulldozers. . . . Timid man must always have envied the horse for its speed. Having no hope of ever being able to compete with it on a biological level, he brilliantly did the next best thing, which was to catch the horse, tame it and climb on its back. When mere horse-muscles became too slow and inconveniently in need of rest and food, man, ever impatient and on the run, invented mechanical transport. . . . Being a strictly ground-bound creature, he mastered water with ships, submarines, and diving equipment. He took to the air first in balloon, then in aircraft, and is now reaching into space . . . trying to get closer to the infinity he will never reach. (1961, pp. 7 3 - 7 4 )

With the invention of technological paraphernalia, the natural environment gradually gave way to a technological environment. As this happened, adap-

10

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE

tive demands shifted from those laid down by nature to those imposed by humans. Another of the man-made environments to impose its particular adaptive demands is the societal environment. In the climb toward civilization, Homo sapiens progressed over the millennia from life as a nomadic hunter and food-gatherer subject to the whims and hazards of nature to life as a food cultivator living in a settled community along with the farm animals he had succeeded in domesticating. As can readily be inferred, life in settled groups necessitated reciprocal obligations among the members, division of work, and cooperative activities. These were facilitated through continuing developments in man's most brilliant invention of all time—a mutually understood verbal language for interpersonal communication and for establishing accepted practices of group living. The climax of this long process is referred to by anthropologists as the Neolithic Revolution. It opened the door to societal concepts in human thinking, relations, and adaptations. Finally, the pattern of communal living fostered the development of yet another distinctively human environment: the psychosocial environment. In order to conform to the dictates of the communal order, people had to learn to live with one another on a broader and more intimate scale than they had yet experienced. When this requirement entered the picture, so did an environment derived from the processes, reactions, confrontations, and defenses of interacting humans and groups of humans. The psyche flowered, and man became a psychological creature subject to the pressures and demands of a psychological environment. In the course of creating these various environments, humankind had gathered unto itself a wealth of wisdom in the form of information, experience, know-how; communicative codes and modes; technological aids; patterns of societal organization; principles, ideals, religions; attitudes, habits, standards; in short a whole panorama of tested experiences, beliefs, and practices which had served for survival and advance. This was the rich cultural heritage transmitted to succeeding generations through teaching/learning processes for lack of genetic programming. Of this circumstance, it has been said that every one of us has "inherited" the wisdom of people whom we have never met in the flesh. Or in the words of an unknown Chinese sage: "I am one, but I am made up of m a n y . " Looking back in time, the natural environment so much feared by our ancestors of prehistory fades into insignificance before the awesome complexity of the cultural environment in which we do our living, from which we derive developmental, cognitive, and affective sustenance, and which, in advanced societies, is woven from intricate culture patterns, involved societal practices, incredible technologies, and the press and pull of a wide assortment of behavior-influencing humans.

An Ecological

Perspective

11

According to cultural patterning theory, people are doubly bound to this environment. They have poured much of themselves into its making. They are therefore part of it. But insofar as their own making is derived from its input, they are also its products. And as its product, the human personality is a complex "in which the emotional responses and cognitive capacities [are] programmed in accordance with the overall design or configuration of [the] culture" (LeVine, 1973, p. 53). Goodman expands on the theory: "Biology sets the basic processes of how man learns, but culture as the transmitted experience of preceding generations, very largely determines what man learns" (1967, p. 61); and it is the biogenetically and psychically mediated internalization of what man learns that is reflected in his "modes of thought, his perceptual and conceptual habits, his motor skills, gestures, and his emotional responses" (1967, p. 177). In short, the individual is a microcosm of the fashioning cultural and immediate environments. No matter how diverse the investigative approaches to the puzzle of man and milieu, all seem to be heading toward the same conclusion: the environments so ingeniously fashioned by the human occupants are in the end the manipulators of their own fashioning. Man-Milieu: Communicative Language-Links The link that makes reciprocal interaction at all possible between the individual and the milieu is subsumed in the concept of "communication." By reason of this linkage-role, communication acquires the status of a life-support system. Without communication, there would be no man-milieu interplay; and without such interplay, no life. This key role of communication is not usually recognized, buried as the concept is under an avalanche of multiple meanings, theories, and countless fragmenting investigations into its parts and processes. In the welter of issues, the behavior of humans as communicating organisms has hardly been touched by theorists. Ruesch, for example, complains that "in developing an overall theory of communication, the greatest need at present revolves around the inclusion of communicating persons" (1964, p. 255). In a similar vein, George Miller voices the impression that "some communication theorists regard the human link in communication systems in much the same way they regard random noise. Both are unfortunate disturbances in an otherwise well-behaved system and both should be reduced until they do as little harm as possible" (1967, p. 45). The track along which communication moves in joining individual to milieu is subsumed in the concept of "language," the most ingenious of which, the verbal form, was invented by the same "human link" that seems such an annoyance to theorists. Little did humans of prehistory suspect,

12

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when they invented the word, that they were at the same time sowing seeds of query and debate that are flourishing to this day. Over the centuries, scholars have pondered such questions as: How were words created? Why is it that all people everywhere do not speak the same language? Why are certain things called by one name and not another? Out of these questions came others. One of the most provocative is still: What is language? From this we plunge into such issues as: What are the roads from thought to words? Which were first, the language patterns or the cultural patterns? Does the structure of a given language affect the thoughts, the memory, the perception, the learning ability of those who speak that language? And crisscrossing these and many other unresolved questions are numerous lines of inquiry into the structure and universals of language, its morphology, syntax, phonology, and semantics. Putting aside these distractingly provocative issues makes it possible to perceive the basic reason why all life forms have communicative mechanisms: communication is essential for life and survival. Toward these ends, every living species possesses its own species-specific bio-communicative structures and "languages" for effecting information exchange with its habitual life environment. For example at the low end of the phylogenetic scale we find the singlecelled amoeba. Tiny and undifferentiated though this protoplasmic mass is, it is nevertheless programmed for survival through communication. Put a poisonous element in its surrounding fluid, and the amoeba responds by thrusting out pseudopods and running for life. But if the element is food, the amoeba responds by approach. Survival messages in these species are transmitted through simple chemical lines of communication. They suffice for the limited information needs of such elementary life forms. As we progress up the evolutionary scale, communicative linkages joining organism and environment become increasingly complex with the increased needs of the more elaborate biological species for greater amounts and varieties of environmental signals, more diverse and effective response mechanisms, and more rapid information processing systems. When we reach the level of Homo sapiens, we reach the apex of bio-communicative engineering. Here the need is for a communication system of sufficient versatility and flexibility to enable humans to adapt to the many natural environments they inhabit throughout the earth as well as to the man-made environments of their own creation. Preparation for managing this heavy load of communicative traffic begins with the individual's first environment—the intrauterine milieu. Evidence that communicative activity takes place before birth is amply documented in the literature, particularly in Gesell's classic studies which demonstrated that "behavior development is already underway at a post-conception age of

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eight weeks, when the fetus is a scant inch in length" (Gesell and Amatruda, 1947, p. 299). Greene (1958) suggests that fetal environment includes not only the physical enclosure of the womb but also the intrauterine "languages" of the mother's body in the form of signals emanating from sounds, pressures, and vibrations coming from the mother's vascular pulses. Messages from these sources are received by the fetus, and the bits of behavior noted by Gesell and Amatruda are, in Greene's view, among the adaptive responses the fetus makes to its environment. A provocative hypothesis is proposed by Moore and Shiek (1971) concerning fetuses with inherited high potential for intellectual superiority. The investigators believe that such fetuses are developmentally ready for a broader range of communicative input than is afforded by the sensorially limited environment of the uterus. They ask: "Given a fetus with a brain in an advanced state of developmental readiness for stimulation, but residing within a restricted uterine environment, what should be the possible results?" (1971, p. 454). They see the results as early infantile autism resulting from intrauterine environmental deprivation. Their hypothesis is reinforced by compelling comparisons between the intrauterine and postnatal behaviors of such infants. The investigators regard intrauterine influence as constituting a "prenatal psychological environment" (1971, p. 453) in which environmental influence on the fashioning of behavior is strikingly demonstrated. Montagu views the infant's earliest communicative experience with the mother's body as constituting "his first language" (1971, p. 110). The use of "language" in this sense will undoubtedly raise the eyebrows of linguistic purists. The classic linguistic concept of language is a system of arbitrary conventional symbols which are primarily vocal and produced by the organs of speech (Hartmann and Stork, 1972; Pei, 1966; Pei and Gaynor, 1954). This concept makes language essentially a verbal system, which would rule out such nonverbal forms of human communication as the whistle-talk of the Mazateco (Cowan, 1948), the drum language of primitive peoples (Frobenius, 1960), the body language of everyday communication (Fast, 1970), and the sign language of the deaf (Stokoe, 1960). However, concepts vary even among linguists. A dissenting view is expressed by the same Pei who contributed to the classic concept cited above. He states, "In their anxiety to restrict language to a pattern of sounds, too many linguists have forgotten that the sound-symbols of the spoken tongue are neither more nor less symbolical of human thought and human meaning than the various forms of activity (gestural, pictorial, ideographic, even artistic) by which men have conveyed significant messages to one another since the dawn of history" (Pei, 1949, p. 10).

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In my view, language is linked to lingua, the tongue, only in the etymological sense. The real seat of language is the mind. Further, the phylogenetic function of language is not in the service of human discourse; it is in the service of species' survival. In this frame, language includes all modes of expression used by humankind in effecting reciprocal communicative relations with their various life environments. It is in this sense that the term "language" is used here. From a first communicative experience by way of the "languages" of the mother's body, the individual gradually advances in the course of time and maturation into a complex of human interaction settings, each with its characteristic patterns of language usage. The settings, as described by Ruesch and Kees (1956), include the intrapersonal, the interpersonal, the group, and the societal. The intrapersonal (or intrapsychic) setting is one in which individuals do their private thinking and ruminating. The interpersonal setting is generated by two interacting humans and the ways in which their distinctive traits mesh. In the next-broader setting the individual functions as a member of a group made up of several or many persons known to one another, each of whom occupies a specialized place in the group network. Finally there is the societal setting, created by the edicts of a society's controlling institutions and cultural mores, in which individual identity is lost and communication is an interaction of large bodies of persons. To add to the communicative complexity, individuals in real life do not ordinarily function in just one setting at a time, but usually in several settings at the same time. A simple illustration is two people chatting at a party. The persons involved are thinking their own private thoughts (intrapersonal system) while at the same time conversing on other matters (interpersonal system), in the context of party distractions (group system), which in turn are imbedded in a sociocultural matrix (societal system). In such coexisting settings, communicative shifts are in constant operation, as are the languages of communication. Argyle (1967) reviews some of the languages of social encounter. In addition to spoken language, they include a wide variety of nonverbal forms: physical proximity and position (proxemics); bodily contacts; gestures; body movements and orientations (kinesics); facial expression; eye movements and glance; nonlinguistic aspects of speech such as intonation, rate, hesitation. Argyle also notes another important message conveyor in the language of behavior—its style, technique, strategies—all of which convey a particular message about the performing human. How do such nonverbal forms acquire their distinctive meanings in a given society? Most are learned in much the same way as the meanings of linguistic forms, through exposure and experience. When they cannot be learned in this natural way, they must be taught in planned ways; because

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fitting comfortably into human interaction environments demands knowing all language-links of human encounter, the nonverbal equally with the verbal. Scientific interest in the impact of nonverbal communication is rising at an extraordinary rate. Among the foremost contributors to the growing body of data are Ekman, Friesen, and their co-workers at the Laboratory of Human Interaction and Conflict at the University of California (Ekman, 1965; Ekman and Friesen, 1969). Studies of nonverbal behavior in psychopathological conditions are also receiving increased attention, thanks in part to the work of Ekman and Friesen (1974), Ostwald (1963, 1977), and the exceptional contributions of Ruesch (1957). Goodman offers a cultural frame for studies on nonverbal communication. She observes: The survival of a human society and its way of life is heavily dependent upon interpersonal and intergenerational communication. . . . While the spoken and/or written language is perhaps the most obvious example of a system of expressive symbolism, there is in any culture a wealth of symbols of quite different sorts. Consider the "language" of gesture, facial expression, or posture, and how much can be communicated by a smile, a glance, a handclasp. Or think of the significance of such ubiquitous symbols as the flag, the national anthem, or national rituals. . . . Religious rituals have more explicit symbolic value, as do some of the more conventionalized art forms. The individual's clothing, house and other personal possessions speak more or less loudly to the initiated observer about the status of the owner. So too do his culturally patterned activities. (1967, pp. 4 4 - 4 5 )

Goodman's phrase "the initiated observer" warrants particular attention since it introduces a crucial aspect of communication that is not generally noted in linguistic studies. Effective communication depends not only on a shared knowledge of the expressive symbolism of a given society but more particularly on shared familiarity with the habits, values, and mores of that culture. Without such familiarity, individuals from different cultures may speak the same linguistic idiom, but they do not necessarily speak the same language (Rudofsky, 1966). Linton calls cross-cultural consonance the ability to "think native," as applied to anthropologists living in a "primitive" society (1945, p. 101); Sussman calls it the ability to "think d e a f , " as applied to psychological workers with deaf persons (Levine, 1977). Finally, Funk offers the following overview of everyday nonverbal symbols of human communication: We have so many ways of expressing ourselves without words. School bells and church bells call us to exercises, whistles remind us of factory hours or warn us of the danger from trains. Human whistles can command a dog or express surprise or invite a girl. Red lights and green lights say stop and go. There's a

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THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE white flag for surrender, a yellow flag for disease, a red one for danger. The nod or shake of a head is eloquent of yes and no. A raised hand asks attention, or in baseball, the spread and lowered hands of the umpire say safe. There are the applauding hands of approval and the stamping feet of impatience. A crossed finger can be a wish for luck. A wink almost anything you wish. And a thumb could be a request for a ride, or, properly applied to the nose, a dramatic gesture of derision. (1950, p. 5)

To sum up, the nonverbal and nonvocal languages of human communication are as essential as the linguistic components in linking mankind to environment. They perform a communicative function in their own right and supplement linguistic expression by extending its semantic range and giving its distinctive tone.

Semantics of Communicative Sounds

Largely overshadowed by the linguistics of communication are the meanings of communicating sounds. Many are contained in the music of the voice. In the absence of hearing, they and their generally unrecognized psychological impacts and values are powerless to perform their intended communicative functions. This section highlights some of these functions and, by inference, the voids created by their absence. This is more than an academic exercise. It touches the very heart of rehabilitation for the deaf. In rehabilitation theory, where an impaired function exists, compensations must be provided that are as closely equivalent as possible in purpose and service to those of the unimpaired function. But when we apply this concept to the habilitation of deaf children, we find ourselves faced with a knotty question: What is the function of hearing in human development and adjustment? Thoughtful deliberation on the question leads to the realization that to provide full compensation for deafness requires knowing more than its manifest problems. It requires knowing what psychological benefits children who hear gain from the sounds around them that a child who cannot hear loses. The psychological benefits bestowed by hearing are the corresponding needs imposed by deafness. To provide a deaf child with these same benefits obviously requires knowing what they are. This is the logical point of departure. The problem is that departure is a very difficult operation. In respect to hearing, much has been written on the exquisite mechanism that makes hearing possible, but little if anything has been said on what hearing itself makes possible. In a similar vein, the literature is rich in studies of the acoustic properties of sound, but its psychological properties are hardly noticed. Yet unless they are brought to the surface and examined, their habilitative significance goes unrecognized. It would be a Herculean task to fill the gaps in knowledge of the psychol-

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ogy of hearing. Here, on a more modest scale, we examine the psychological correlates of a small sample of sound-families, to illustrate something of what is missing from a human environment when they cannot be heard. For easier discussion, the sound-families are arbitrarily divided into factualinformative, affective, and self-perceptive groupings. Factual-Informative Sounds These are the sounds whose major semantic function is to convey fact. They are illustrated under three headings: verbal-informative, vocal informative, and nonvocal informative. Verbal-informative. To convey fact through the spoken word is probably the most obvious and familiar function of sound. For small children, verbal sounds provide the first foothold into their cultural heritage and into the large bodies of knowledge they will need for maturation and adaptation. First through the spoken tongue, later supplemented by its written derivative, children learn facts on countless subjects ranging from things, places, peoples, and events to social customs, institutions, attitudes, prohibitions. They can go back in time to the great events of the past, and forward in imagination to the even greater possibilities of the future. They exchange views with their fellows and learn how others think and feel. They learn to understand behaviors and interpret happenings. They gain insights and form judgments, and all through the sounds of the spoken word. In short, the factual-informative inputs conveyed through sound represent key links in the chain of information that unites a child with the cultural milieu and an adult with the societal environment. Vocal-informative. Conveying factual information is not limited to sounds encoded in words. Often it is not the word that informs but rather the tones in which it is uttered. Vocal intonations, inflections, stress, modulation, phrasing, timing—the musical elements of the voice—are all informers in their own right. The intonational features of spoken language have commanded the attention of numbers of linguists (Bolinger, 1964; Lieberman, 1967; Pike, 1945; Rommetveit, 1968; Schubiger, n.d.). The challenge can be inferred from Pike's statement: An extraordinary characteristic of intonations is the tremendous connotative power of their elusive meanings. O n e might hastily and erroneously assume that forms which change so rapidly and automatically could not be semantically potent. Actually, w e often react more violently to the intonational meanings than to the lexical ones; if a man's tone of voice belies his words, w e immediately assume that the intonation more faithfully reflects his true linguistic intentions. ( 1 9 4 5 , p. 22)

In addition to straightforward fact, inferential messages are also conveyed through vocal tones, as amusingly described by Connor:

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THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE The invitation or command, " C o m e in and sit d o w n " seems simple and straightforward. But any husband can tell you that the speaker may mean, " I ' v e called you twice and you haven't even answered m e and supper is getting cold and w e will be late again because you have to shave yet and you always make us late wherever w e g o and tonight of all nights I wish you would be on time because this is the first invitation I ' v e ever got from Mrs. Morris and if we're late she'll never invite us again and s o on and s o on and so o n . " ( 1 9 6 1 , p. 52)

Sound also opens up wide avenues of factual information by way of the voice alone, quite divorced from verbal content. "We express not only fear, desire, and approval but many other states too when we click the tongue against the roof of the mouth (mild disapproval or reproach), hiss (strong disapproval), cut short a yawn (boredom of sleepiness corrected by regard for other people's feelings), expel the breath with a whistling sound (surprise), inhale with a somewhat osculatory effect (the last is self-explanatory)" (Schlauch, 1955, p. 7). The list of factual information conveyed by the voice-without-words could be extended indefinitely. To one who hears, each informative vocal sound conveys a factual message, and what is more, a message whose meaning is fairly well standardized within the culture and, in many instances, can even surmount foreign-language barriers. Nonvocal-informative. Sound also conveys important factual messages from nonvocal sources. Among the most important are sounds that inform for the purpose of protection, such as traffic whistles, the fire alarm, the burgler alarm, the automobile horn, a siren, and, in the case of job protection, the alarm clock. Schlauch notes the variety of informative sounds conveyed by bells alone: ' 'A bell which rings a certain number of times will announce to students a change of classes, to workers, a shift in jobs, to persons on a party wire of a telephone, summons to conversation with a friend. The bells on shipboard are highly conventionalized signals marking the passage of a day of maritime work. . . . The dirge of a funeral and the chimes of a wedding bell tell a whole story without words" (1955, p. 7). Finally, a steady stream of information is continually relayed to us through sounds-at-large that come from our surroundings. Sounds from the street, from other parts of the house, sounds in our own room, all blend into an informative pattern that gives us a feeling of unity with our immediate world and of psychological security in it. Even when alone, we are neither isolated nor estranged, for we are never farther away than the sounds around us. We can rest secure in the knowledge that changes in sound will automatically alert us to changes in events. We can count on the sounds we hear not only to keep us in touch, but to keep us informed. Affective Sounds

Emotional development is stimulated and emotional tonicity sustained through affective sounds. Their semantic appeal begins in early infancy with

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the cooing of a mother to her baby, and continues throughout life. The range of emotionally stirring messages transmitted through affective sounds is easily as broad as that conveying fact, and perhaps broader. Included are sounds of all kinds, both vocal and nonvocal, and in all varieties of emotional appeal from the pathetic whimper of a puppy to the stirring cadences of a symphony. Verbal elements are generally of minor importance in such sound. When present, their role is secondary to their tonal qualities. Research on the communication of emotional meaning through vocal sounds, while still limited, has yielded some provocative findings. A chief problem of such research is to isolate the tones of the voice from verbal anchorage. Davitz (1964) cites a number of studies that bypass the problem, some by using neutral verbal elements such as the alphabet, and others by using filtered speech. "Regardless of the techniques used, all studies of adults thus far reported in the literature agree that emotional meanings can be communicated accurately by vocal expression" (Davitz, 1964, p. 23). Several attempts have been made to judge various personal characteristics of a speaker through nonverbal vocal expression. In one of the earliest, according to Ostwald (1963), Pear (1931) investigated the responses of several thousand radio listeners of the BBC in England and Cantril and Allport (1935) repeated the work in the United States; it was found "that a speaker's nonverbal sound-making reveals reliable information about age, occupation, and appearance, [and] is occasionally helpful for evaluating personality attributes like extraversión and dominance" (Ostwald, 1963, p. 51). Starkweather (1961) reports an investigation along somewhat similar lines using nonverbal vocal sounds as cues in making judgments of personality and sensitivity to human feeling. He found that nonverbal vocal sounds appear valuable in predicting sound-makers' responses on projective tests and as indicators of strong, momentary emotional states (1961, p. 72). In the psychiatric area, Ostwald studied the vocal patterns of patients with psychopathological disorders, and urgently recommended a more active "search for correlation between acoustical and behavioral variables" (1963, p. 157) as an important aid in psychiatric diagnosis and treatment. Hoggart concisely assesses the evidence on the role of the voice in communicating feeling: "It is easy to see that tone is more important than the dictionary-meaning of the words we u s e " (1972, p. 14). In a more poetic vein, Robson elaborates, "The mind's ear perpetually detects, discriminates, and perceives patterns of intensity or tone whenever the air moves in winds and whispers, in speech or music, in cries, chimes, storms, in the waves of the seas, or in the murmurs and pulse of cities" (1959, p. 85). The various affective sounds noted in the preceding discussion are just a few of the kinds of affective sounds that stir persons to feeling. Pierce and David declare in wonder, "That our auditory senses can interpret all this is more marvelous still" (1958, p. 19). Some further examples of affective

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input through sound are grouped below into empathetic, persuasive, and esthetic sound families. Empathetic sounds. These are the sounds whose emotional appeal tends to induce in a hearer a state of affective unity with another living creature by arousing in him the same emotion experienced by the sound-maker, or else an appropriately responsive emotion, as, for example, the sound of sobs reducing a hearer to tears, a cry of terror inducing a wave of panic in the one who hears it, the mew of a starving kitten producing an "empathetic" saucer of milk. Persuasive sounds. This sound family includes sounds directed toward influencing attitudes, opinion, action. The individual who is the source of the sound can remain quite untouched by its affective appeal; the listener is the target. Foremost in the category of persuasive sound-makers are authority figures in all walks of life, from a cajoling parent to a raging demagogue. Persuasive sounds can be heard in such diverse messages as parental injunction and inducement, religious sermons, party manifestos, declamatory propaganda, political declamations, and advertising exhortations of all kinds. But whatever the message, it is the vocal rather than the verbal impact that is counted on to get to the heart of the listener. Esthetic sounds. Esthetic sounds are those that stir feeling primarily through their appealing cadences. In the verbal area, examples are the sounds and sound images of great literature, of poetry. Before the words are muted in print, they are sounded out in the mind's ear of the author. Robson comments that "Poe proved that the esthetic power of language depended to a considerable degree on the sounds of the words" (1959, p. 11), and that ' 'Hart Crane learned how the sounds of words could bombard his mind and evoke feelings out of associations dormant in his subconscious" (1959, p. 12). He tells further that "a word technician is concerned with how auditory qualities can express his thoughts, feelings, and emotions with more precise shades of meaning, greater accuracy in description, and a more decisive power of statement" (1959, p. 30; italics added in all three quotations). In the nonverbal area, music is a prime example of esthetic sound. A number of studies of its psychological effects can be found in the literature (e.g., Farnsworth, 1969; Lundin, 1967), including its effects on behavior in such settings as factories, correctional institutions, hospitals, and psychiatric facilities (Soibelman, 1948).

Self-Perceptive Sounds The ability to hear the sounds one makes plays a major role in self-perception and self-expression. An occasional look in the mirror during the day affords transitory visible proof of identity; but the sounds that issue forth

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from an individual provide continuing assurance. The sounds of the voice talking, humming, mumbling, interjecting; the sounds of the body, its footsteps, coughs, sneezes, the rumblings of an empty stomach, the rustling of clothes, all these and many more provide continuing assurance of existence, presence, of identity. Another important function of the ability to hear one's own voice is emotional release. "Bursting with j o y , " for example, is largely the voice bursting forth in jubilation. And at the other end of the emotional spectrum, feelings of anger, frustration, and the like can be considerably relieved through vocal discharge. The ability to hear oneself assault vocally lessens the urge to assault physically. Another aspect of self-expression is the entertainment that hearing o n e ' s voice provides, as in singing, mimicry, performing, reciting, and the like, and in sharing the pleasure with others. Not to hear o n e ' s own voice is to be cut off from a vital part of the self and from a major expressive outlet.

Summary Comment Current disclosures from research as well as from life provide mounting evidence of the power of environment in the fashioning of human behavior. Authorities from a wide variety of disciplines agree that whatever people know as human beings comes to them from environment; whatever mankind has achieved in the climb up the ladder of civilization was made possible through communication with environment and its human occupants. Human personality is fashioned largely by environmental influences; human achievement, by communication with the external milieu. Particular attention is called to the powerful influences on human development and adjustment contained in the emotional, cognitive, and psychosocial meanings of nonlinguistic sounds. The psychological voids created by the absence of such sounds from deaf environments have seldom been noted. They demand recognition, investigation, and above all compensation. Where, then, does environment end and the individual begin? This is the classic question asked by today's eco-behavioral investigators. Is there a dividing line between the two, or are both, as Brunswik suggests (1957), hewn basically from the same block? In terms of human service, the question becomes: Wherein lies the greater promise for human adjustment, with rehabilitating individuals or with rehabilitating their defective environments? Such questions have yet to be answered. But the major theme emerging from studies of individual-environment interplay is simply stated and generally accepted: To better understand people, we must look to and understand the environments that fashioned them.

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Environmental Abstracts SER 1. 1965. A Publication of the Architectual Research Laboratory, College of Architecture and Design, University of Michigan. Farnsworth, P. R. 1969. The Social Psychology of Music. Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press. Fast, J. 1970. Body Language. New York: M. Evans and Co. Freeman, F. N. 1934. Individual Differences. New York: Holt. Freud, S. 1947. The Ego and the Id. London: Hogarth Press. Frobenius, L. 1960. The Childhood of Man. New York: Meridian Books. Fuller, J. L., and Thompson, W. R. 1960. Behavior Genetics. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Funk, W. 1950. Word Origins. New York: Grosset & Dunlap. Gage, N. L. 1972. Replies to Shockley, Page, and Jenson: The causes of race differences in I.Q. Phi Delta Kappan, March 1972: 4 2 2 - 2 7 . Gellman, W. 1973. Fundamentals of rehabilitation. In J. F. Garrett and E. S. Levine, eds., Rehabilitation Practices with the Physically Disabled. New York: Columbia University Press. Gesell, A . , and Amatruda, C. S. 1947. Developmental Diagnosis. 2d ed. New York: Paul B. Hoeber. Gibbs, J. C. 1979. The meaning of ecologically oriented inquiry in contemporary psychology. American Psychologist, 34: 127-40. Goodman, M. E. 1967. The Individual and Culture. Homewood, 111.: Dorsey Press. Greene, W. J., Jr. 1958. Early object relations, somatic, affective, and personal. Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, 126: 2 2 5 - 5 3 . Hartmann, R. R. K . , and Stork, F. C. 1972. Dictionary of Language and Linguistics. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Hawley, A. H. 1950. Human Ecology. New York: Ronald Press. Hogben, L. 1933 Nature and Nurture. New York: W. W. Norton. Hoggart, R. 1972. On Culture in Communication. New York: Oxford University Press. Insel, P. M . , and Moos, R. H. 1974. Psychological environments: Expanding the scope of human ecology. American Psychologist, 29: 1 7 9 - 8 8 . Jensen, A. R. 1969. How much can we boost the I.Q. and scholastic achievement? Harvard Educational Review, 39: 1 - 2 2 . Jensen, A. R. 1972. Genetics and Education. London: Methuen. Knapp, P. H. 1953. The ear, listening and hearing. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 1: 6 7 2 - 8 9 . Langer, S. K. 1967. Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling. Vol. I. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Levine, E. S., Ed. 1977. The Preparation of Psychological Service Providers to the Deaf. PR W A D Monograph No. 4. Journal of Rehabilitation of the Deaf. LeVine, R. A. 1973. Culture, Behavior, and Personality. Chicago: Aldine Publishing Co. Lieberman, P. 1967. Intonation, Perception, and Language. Cambridge, Mass.: M . I . T . Press. Linton, R. 1945. The Cultural Background of Personality. New York: AppletonCentury-Crofts. Lundin, R. W. 1967. An Objective Psychology of Music. New York: Ronald Press.

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Maloney, M. P., and Ward, M. P. 1973. Ecology: Let's hear from the people. American Psychologist, 28: 5 8 3 - 8 6 . Margolin, R. J. and Goldin, G. J., eds. 1969. Research Utilization Conference on Rehabilitation in Poverty Settings. Monograph No. 7. Boston: Northeastern University. Meadows, D. H., Meadows, D. L., Randers, J., and Behrens, W. W., III. 1972. The Limits to Growth. New York: Universe Books. Miller, D. R. 1978. Nature/nurture and intelligence in current introductory educational psychology textbooks. Educational Psychologist, 13: 8 7 - 9 1 . Miller, G. A. 1967. The Psychology of Communication. Baltimore: Penguin Books. Miller, T. L. 1974. Environmental effects: Neglected child of psychological assessment. The School Psychology Newsletter 28. American Psychological Association. Montagu, A. 1969. Man: His First Two Million Years. New York: Dell Publishing Co., Delta Books. Montagu, A. 1971. Touching: The Human Significance of the Skin. New York: Columbia University Press. Moore, D. J., and Shiek, D. A. 1971. Toward a theory of early infantile autism. Psychological Review, 78: 451-56. Moos, R. H. 1973. Conceptualizations of human environments. American Psychologist, 28: 6 5 2 - 6 5 . Moos, R. H., and Insel, P., eds. 1974. Issues in Social Ecology: Human Milieu. Palo Alto, Calif.: National Press Books. Muescher, H., and Ungeheuer, H. 1961. Meteorological influences on reaction time, flicker fusion frequency, job accidents, and use of medical treatment. Perceptual and Motor Skills, 12: 163-68. Odum, E. P. 1971. Fundamentals of Ecology. 3d. ed. Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders Co. Ostwald, P. 1963. Soundmaking: The Acoustic Communication of Emotion. Springfield, 111.: Charles C. Thomas. Ostwald, P., ed. 1977. Communication and Social Interaction: Clinical and Therapeutic Aspects of Human Behavior. New York: Grune & Stratton. Pastore, N. 1949. The Nature-Nurture Controversy. New York: King's Crown Press, Columbia University Press. Pear, T. H. 1931. Voice and Personality as Applied to Radio Broadcasting. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Pei, M. 1949. The Story of Language. New York: J. B. Lippincott Co. Pei, M. 1966. Glossary of Linguistic Terminology. New York: Columbia University Press. Pei, M. A . , and Gaynor, F. 1954. A Dictionary of Linguistics. New York: Philosophical Library. Pierce, J. R., and David, E. E. 1958. Man's World of Sound. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday and Co. Pike, K. L. 1945. The Intonation of American English. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Proshansky, H. M. 1976. Environmental psychology and the real world. American Psychologist, 31:303-10.

An Ecological

Perspective

25

Robson, E. M. 1959. The Orchestra of the Language. New York: Thomas Yoseloff. Rogers-Warren, A., and Warren, S. F. 1977. Ecological Perspectives in Behavior Analysis. Baltimore: University Park Press. Rommetveit, R. 1968. Words, Meanings, and Messages. New York: Academic Press. Rudofsky, B. 1966. The Kimono Mind. London: Victor Gollancz. Ruesch, J., and Rees, W. 1956. Nonverbal Communication. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Ruesch, J., and Bateson, G. 1951. Communication: The Social Matrix of Psychiatry. New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Ruesch, J. 1957. Disturbed Communication. New York: W. W. Norton. Ruesch, J. 1964. Clinical science and communication theory. In D. McK. Rioch and Winstein, E. A., eds., Disorders of Communication. Association for Research in Nervous and Mental Disease, Research Publications, Vol. 42. Baltimore: Williams & Wilkins Co. Ryan, W. 1971. Blaming the Victim. New York: Random House. Schaar, K. 1976. Environment and behavior. APA Monitor, 1: 4 - 5 , 18-19. Schieffelin, B., and Schwesinger, G. C. 1930. Mental Tests and Heredity. New York: Galton Publishing Co. Schlauch, M. 1955. The Gift of Language. New York: Dover Publications. Schubiger, M. n.d. The Role of Intonation in Spoken English. Boston: Expression Co. (c. 1933.) Sells, S. B., ed. 1963. Stimulus Determinants of Behavior. New York: Ronald Press. Sells, S., Findikyan, N., and Duke, M. 1966. Stress Reviews: Atmosphere. Technical Report No. 10, Institute of Behavioral Research, Texas Christian University. Fort Worth. Shapiro, H. L., ed. 1956. Man, Culture, and Society. Reprinted 1970. New York: Oxford University Press. Shockley, W. 1972. A debate challenge: Geneticity is 80% for white twins I.Q.'s. Phi Delta Kappan, March 1972: 415-19. Shuttleworth, F. K. 1935. The nature versus nurture problem: II. Journal of Educational Psychology, 26: 655-81. Simeons, A. T. W. 1961. Man's Presumptuous Brain. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co. Soibelman, D. 1948. Therapeutic and Industrial Uses of Music: A Review of the Literature. New York: Columbia University Press. Starkweather, J. A. 1961. Vocal communication of personality and human feelings. Journal of Communication, 11: 6 3 - 7 2 . Stokoe, W. C., Jr. 1960. Sign Language Structure. Buffalo, N.Y.: Studies in Linguistics, University of Buffalo. Vale, J. R. 1973. Role of behavior genetics in psychology. American Psychologist, 28: 871-83. Wagner, P. L. 1972. Environments and People. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: PrenticeHall. Whatmough, J. 1956. Language: A Modern Synthesis. New York: St. Martin's Press.

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Wicker, A. W. 1979. Ecological psychology: Some recent and prospective developments. American Psychologist, 34: 755-65. Winton, H. N. M., comp, and ed. 1972. Man and the Environment. Bibliography 1946-1971. New York and London: Unipub, Inc./R. T. Bowker Company. Wohwill, J. F. 1970. The emerging discipline of environmental psychology. American Psychologist, 25: 303-12. Wohwill, J. F., and Carson, D. H., eds. Environment and the Social Sciences: Perspectives and Applications. Washington, D.C.: American Psychological Association, Inc.

2 Acoustically Impaired Environments: Psychological Correlates . . . everybody who acquires deafness goes through hell. Peck, Samuelson, Lehman, Ears and the Man

our physical being depends for life upon the air we breathe, so does our psychological being depend for life upon the sounds we hear. When sound is blotted out of an environment, various psychological voids are created that need to be filled. Yet adaptive pressures are not lessened because of the narrowed milieu. It makes no difference whether an individual can or cannot hear, or whether a person does or does not have the resources for coping; the environmental imperative prevails in accordance with its own immutable demands.

JUST AS

This is the situation facing the largest group of physically impaired persons in the United States, conservatively estimated to number some 13 million hearing-impaired individuals (Schein and Delk, 1974). This vast body includes hearing losses ranging in a steady continuum from the minor to the profound; impairments that appear at any time from birth to old age; and hearing difficulties that develop slowly and unobtrusively or strike suddenly and severely. The numerous variables represented in this population have spawned a host of classification systems and terminologies for hearing impairments as well as varying census figures, as will be discussed later. The aim here is to discuss the cycle of deficits in which impaired acoustic environments lead to impaired psychological environments, and impaired psychological environments to disturbed human behavior. To illustrate, we turn to three distinctly different types of impaired acoustic environments as

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represented by: (1) progressive deafness, traditionally termed "hard of hearing"; (2) sudden profound deafness, sometimes called "deafened"; and (3) profound congenital deafness, included in the category commonly termed "the d e a f . " By far the largest segment of the hearing-impaired population is made up of the hard-of-hearing and the deafened; the smallest, of the deaf.

Progressive Deafness

The situation in which persons with progressive deafness find themselves reflects the insidious environmental distortions commonly brought on by the condition. So unobtrusive may be the onset of hearing loss, and so gradual the increase, that often its presence goes unnoticed for years even by the victim. However, behavioral signs that something is wrong are manifest long before this time. They are simply attributed to other causes. The victim thinks the world has taken to speaking in a mumble. The world thinks the sufferer's personality is taking a turn for the worse. As described by Berry, "The father thinks that Tom is inattentive; the mother calls it preoccupation; the teacher suspects stupidity; his comrades think he does not care or that he is queer or self-centered" (1933, pp. 2-3). The human environment treats the child in as many different ways as there are misinterpretations of his behavior. With so many different images of himself reflected in the eyes of society, the child does not rightly know who he is. A short-lived spurt of interest in this undramatic disability took place in the 1930s and 1940s, sparked mainly by Rudolf Pintner in the area of psychological research (Pintner, Eisenson, and Stanton, 1941), by a number of hard-of-hearing persons in hearing rehabilitation (Peck, Samuelson, and Lehman, 1926; Washington, 1958), and by several prominent otologists and psychiatrists whose patients included hard-of-hearing persons. Although most of the psychological studies of the period (Levine, 1956) were criticized by contemporary purists for inadequacies in research design, exercise of controls, and instruments used, the general results taken in conjunction with personal reports from persons with progressive deafness as well as from the observations of involved physicians pointed to serious problem areas in personality and adjustments. It might be expected that the psychological disturbances reported in these early accounts would be notably lessened in the course of the decades as a result of the remarkable advances made in aural rehabilitation. However, this does not appear to be the case, as suggested by Rosenthal (1975). What has taken place since the 1930s and 1940s is a drastic lessening of interest in the hard-of-hearing and in related psychological research and publications. As a result, we find ourselves turning to the vivid narrative of the early

Acoustically Impaired Environments

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reports to describe representative human responses to a progressively muted environment. Hunt relates his experiences with an adult patient: L o o k i n g at this m a n , the otologist can readily visualize the boy he used to be. T h e b o y w h o had the bad case of measles at the age of eight, perhaps. The o n e w h o was picked on in school for inattention, jeered at for making mistakes; w h o had to be forced to take part in group activities; w h o wasn't interested in girls. M a k i n g his painful w a y through childhood and a d o l e s c e n c e , unguided, unaware of w h y he was a l w a y s at a disadvantage, the young man c h o s e his career . . . N o w the man is grown. In spite of his u n a c k n o w l e d g e d handicap, he has forced from life the things he most w a n t e d — a g o o d j o b , marriage, family. He has arrived at the otologist's o f f i c e — W h y ? B e c a u s e he has everything the normal man wants out of life and he is in mortal fear of losing every bit of it. T h e otologist w h o e x a m i n e s this patient and writes on his record card, "Progressive d e a f n e s s , " has made only superficial diagnosis. The record might more accurately read: " D i a g n o s i s : f e a r . " Fear of failure, fear of ridicule, fear of p e o p l e , fear of n e w situations, chance encounters, sudden n o i s e s , imagined sounds; fear of being slighted, avoided, made c o n s p i c u o u s — t h e s e are but a handful of the fears that haunt the waking and e v e n the sleeping hours of the sufferer from progressive deafness. Small wonder that, at best, he tends to live in an atmosphere of d e s p o n d e n c y and suspicion. Small wonder that, at worst, he may not particularly want to live at all. ( 1 9 4 4 , pp. 4 , 5)

Menninger sums up his experiences with progressively deafened persons in the statement, "It is as if something vital to one's existence had been torn from h i m " (1924, p. 146). Van Horn relates that for the teacher of lipreading, "threats of suicide, rage, depression, isolation, self-hate, shame, and suspicion are part of her daily contacts with her pupils as they go through the period of intense emotional struggle due to sudden loss of hearing or sudden realization that the handicap is permanent and progressive" (1929, p. 413). Along the road the progressively deafened travel are young people who live in daily anxiety at the prospect of being caught in the joshing camaraderie of a hearing group; of being singled out in games; of being called on in class; and, worst of all, of missing the sweet nothings whispered into their impaired ears on dates. There are young brides filled with guilt at having burdened another with their deafness and deeply disturbed at the possibility of passing it on to those not yet born; anguished parents who cannot hear the baby's cry in the night or make anything of the excited prattle of their children; anxious wives who cringe at the thought of every social obligation that must be met; husbands and fathers faced with the prospect of becoming vocational students again in occupations where impaired hearing is no handicap.

30

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IMPERATIVE

The psychiatric term "isolation" is commonly used to describe the sensation of being cut off from the world which comes with lessened hearing ability. But the isolation thus experienced is not the same as that resulting from psychic disorder. In the latter case, "isolation" represents a defense employed by the individual to escape from an anxiety-provoking environment. But where isolation results from impaired hearing, it is not the individual who is seeking escape. On the contrary, it is the environment that is escaping from the perceptive grasp of the individual. By its very nature, decreased hearing ability simulates the sensation of increasing distance between the person and the source of sound. As hearing fades, sound seems to be coming from farther and farther away. Ultimately some sounds disappear altogether; others are distorted; patterns of sound are no longer recognizable. The resultant feeling of isolation, of detachment from the world, is forced upon all whose hearing no longer keeps them in touch with life. Along with the feeling of detachment, a confusing distortion in audiovisual Gestalt arises from the sensorially illogical differences between the auditory estimates of the distance and source of sound and the actual visible evidence. It is as if sound were heard as coming from great distances and particular directions but seen to be quite near at hand and from a different direction entirely. Adding to this confusion are the distortions in the sounds that are heard: The deafened hear a great deal; they hear especially the louder strident sounds; street and mechanical noises fall heavily upon their hypersensitive ears. In certain types of deafness all sounds are distorted, and the sudden shriek of brakes or the wail of motor horns is agonizing. The cheerful phonograph discoursing harmless jazz for the dance is misery. Worst of all are the pathologically created sounds which have no external existence, and which we call tinnitus, or headnoises. He who has them, rarely, if ever, knows a moment of silence, and the torture they inflict can never be estimated by anyone who has never experienced them. Head noises alone would provide excuse for most of the mental aberrations of acquired deafness. (Peck, Samuelson, and Lehman, 1926, p. 37)

These authors also wish "to slaughter, if we can, a popular delusion, the classic association of deafness with silence. . . . Silence would fall upon the deafened like the gentle pall of sleep upon the weary" (pp. 36-37). While the sufferers are engulfed in the struggle to bring this incredibly distorted influx of sound into a semblance of perceptive order, they are threatened by still another type of auditory problem—a decreased ability to gauge and monitor the sounds of their own voices. To persons with obstructive deafness, their voices may sound disproportionately loud, and to avoid what they perceive as shouting, they tend to speak lower and lower until they can hardly be heard at all. On the other hand, persons with severe nerve involvement have difficulty in hearing the sound of their own voices, and to

Acoustically Impaired Environments

31

overcome this, they speak with unnecessary loudness. As time goes on and hearing lessens, defective articulations commonly appear, together with other poor speech habits. Gifford and Bowler observe that "many of these hard-of-hearing people live in fear of their own voices. They are constantly on the alert to detect the unfavorable reaction of those with whom they talk, trying to regulate by this reaction the volume of their voice" (1942, p. 23). To the continuing strain of trying to understand is added the strain of trying not to be misunderstood. From the tensions thus imposed on interpersonal communication, a rift develops between hearing-impaired individuals and the human environment. Society contributes in no small measure to the rift, albeit unintentionally. Nothing of the auditory turmoil experienced by the sufferer is visible except possible changes in behavior; and since these annoy, society retreats. The ways in which progressively deafened persons react to a beginning awareness of the hearing problem led Peck, Samuelson, and Lehman to classify them as: "the 'Truth-at-any-price' type; the 'Hermits'; the 'Wont's'; and lastly, the 'Panaseekers' " (1926, p. 10). The " T r u t h " group has the stamina to accept the situation and take the necessary measures to meet the related problems. The "Hermits" withdraw. The " W o n t ' s " defy every effort at rehabilitation, in the belief that it is society's duty to cater to their misfortune. The "Panaseekers" will not believe there is no cure, and "dash from scientist to charlatan in search of the 'sure-cure' " (1926, p. 10). An important inference to be drawn from these categories is that a person's manner of reacting to deafness is an expression of basic personality. Where isolation and regression are the individual's established modes of dealing with emotional crises, the feeling of detachement that comes with impaired hearing may, under adverse conditions, easily slip into true psychic detachment. Inability to hear offers such persons a ready-made escape from tensions and responsibilities; they meet these with apathy, withdrawal, or regression to psychic infantilism. In other cases, inability to solve the conflicts activated by hearing loss leads to a hostile projection of the problems onto society, a "chip on the shoulder" attitude, a suspicious, defensive set commonly referred to in the field literature as the paranoid attitude of the hard of hearing. However, interpretative caution must be exercised before a diagnosis of psychopathology is made. On the basis of broad psychiatric experience with hearing-impaired persons, both Knapp (1948) and Zeckel (1950) agree that suspicion is frequently present but that, as often as not it is justified, for "people do avoid them, exploit them, and talk about t h e m " (Knapp, 1948, p. 210). Some individuals deny the reality of the facts that would otherwise generate deep anxiety. Fowler (1951, p. 2) observes that the "tendency to ignore or deny the first indications of deafness, aversion to consulting an otologist,

32

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL

IMPERATIVE

and even to resent suggestions that hearing is not 'perfectly all right,' [and] persistent objections to using a hearing aid or studying lipreading, until long after these are clearly indicated" are common reactions in otosclerotic progressive deafness. A n interesting look into the emotional concomitants of objections to using a hearing aid is offered by Warfield from her personal experiences: It seemed to me that the life experience of a person such as myself divided into three periods, each with its own emotional factors: Needing a hearing aid. Getting a hearing aid. Forgetting your hearing aid. However long the first period lasts it is characterized by one outstanding emotion: anger. The person who does not hear well lives, as I have said, in an angry world of raised voices and exasperated faces. Moreover, he himself is angry. Angry with himself for being at a disadvantage. Angry with the rest of the world for keeping him at a disadvantage. The anger does not always show. Sometimes it takes the form of aggressiveness. Then you have the person who fights it out with the world, insisting that he can hear but that everyone else is mumbling. Sometimes the hidden anger emerges as indifference. Then you have the person who convinces himself and often succeeds in convincing the rest of the world that he doesn't care to hear—that noise is unpleasant and conversation is boring and deafness is fine. And sometimes the hidden anger reverses itself completely and emerges wearing a masquerade of sweetness and light. Next comes the period of getting a hearing aid. . . . On the emotional level, it means admitting to yourself and to the rest of the world that you lack something. . . . By getting a hearing aid you admit that you are crippled. And when you do that you run into the emotion that every crippled person knows: fear. Now comes the third emotional problem. One has overcome anger at being handicapped, lived through fear that a hearing aid will mean the loss of whatever is most valuable in life. The third problem is putting it on and forgetting it. . . . In this third period there still is a highly charged emotional factor. It is insecurity. . . . some hard-of-hearing people seem to come by inner security naturally and without too much effort. Some achieve it voluntarily, by associating themselves with hearing organizations or with friends who share their handicap. But a great many need help in finding their inner security. They need special understanding, special patience, and even a certain amount of special protection as they make their way slowly and sometimes painfully toward rehabilitation (1957, pp. 102, 103). In short, it is personality and circumstances rather than hearing loss that determine individual reaction to the indignities of what Warfield calls the "crippled" state. A s summed up by Zeckel, the defenses employed by deafened individuals are "not unique. . . . In a great number of cases w e have seen that a neurosis existed before the patient lost his hearing. . . . In a great number of cases definite illness becomes manifest because of the additional handicap of deafness. . . . The less neurotic the patient is, the better he will adapt to his deafness" (1950, pp. 338, 340). In this connec-

Acoustically Impaired Environments

33

tion, Rosenthal warns rehabilitation clients to beware of attempts by unqualified professional personnel to shift the locus of the problem "from your ears to your psyche" (1975, p. 76). The less expertise that specialists possess in their own disciplinary domain, the more apt they are to "shift the b l a m e " to another discipline. Where adjustment to hearing loss is ultimately achieved, the types of satisfactory compensation are summarized by Menninger (1924) as: (a) perceptual compensation, in which there is a deliberate as well as a more or less unconscious sharpening of sense perception so that latent sensory faculties are developed to fill the gaps left by impaired hearing (lipreading represents a visual perceptual compensation); (b) intellectual compensation, in which a philosophical attitude and a purposeful broadening of creative interests and outlets are employed to maintain psychic balance and vigor; (c) emotional compensation, through which individuals succeed in sublimating their disturbance and come to peace with themselves through healthy psychic devices, aided by the saving grace of a sense of humor; and (d) volitional compensation, through which the individual is impelled to achieve not only in spite of but because of disability. Although Menninger's compensations were formulated more than a half century ago, they are still the recommended compensations today, as expressed in Rosenthal's (1975) positive cycle of steps for adjustment to hearing loss. The number of new psychological studies of hard-of-hearing persons has diminished considerably since the 1930s and 1940s, but the general findings are still the same; the earlier personal accounts of the psychological impact of progressive deafness are echoed in the present; society still recoils from what it cannot understand; a substantial prevalence of undetected hearing loss still exists among children despite the increase of auditory screening programs in the schools (Roberts and Federico, 1972); and pressing needs are still unmet. In the belief that it requires the national voice of millions of hearing-impaired people and the authority of a national organization to recognize the problems and needs of the hard-of-hearing, the Consumers Organization for the Hearing Impaired, Inc. (COHI) was established in the late 1970s. Designated by its founders as "an organization committed to furthering the interests of hard of hearing persons" (COHI Reporter, March 1980, vol. 2, no. 1) a number of its purposes are: • To create a unified national voice for all hard-of-hearing persons. • To educate the public on the unique problems and potentials of hard-ofhearing persons. • To clarify the difference between those who are hard of hearing and those who are deaf.

34

T H E ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE

• To eliminate misunderstanding and discrimination against hard-of-hearing workers and job-seekers. • To offer technical assistance and information on the needs and experiences of hard-of-hearing persons to organizations of consumers, professionals, manufacturers, and to government agencies. • To form alliances and seek active cooperation with other organizations of consumers and professionals. (Excerpted from COHI membership application 1979-1980) It may well be that the sparks generated by COHI will rekindle interest in progressive deafness and in the psychologically disruptive potentials of its bizarre acoustic environment. Sudden Profound Deafness Whereas many progressively deafened persons visualize silence as a blessed release from the piercing agonies of head noises and the raucous distortions of external sounds, for individuals experiencing sudden profound deafness, the silence is one of life's most terrifying experiences (Lehmann, 1954). It represents an abrupt plunge from the vigorous, energizing acoustics of a bustling world to the deadness of a tomb. Hearing persons often experience the sensation on stepping into a completely sound-isolated room such as is used in the testing of hearing. The silence is suffocating. Ears seem to stretch out to catch whatever small sounds may be around. When none are heard, the individual nervously utters vocal sounds on his own; anything to dispel the almost physical discomfort that the absence of sounds produce. Not infrequently, feelings of panic set in, and the individual is forced to flee the cubicle, sometimes embarrassed but always relieved. Lucky the ones who can escape when anxiety becomes intolerable. The deafened are not among them. In Childhood Possibly the most confused victims of sudden profound deafness are young children. When, for example, small three-year-olds experience abrupt soundlessness, they have no way of knowing what has happened. Nor is there any way of explaining. Introspective reports from very young children are naturally impossible, and retrospective accounts are rare. But observation of behavior supplies clues to the children's feelings. One three-year-old, in my clinical practice, thought people stopped talking aloud simply to tease. Her bitterness with this cruel joke led her to lash out at them physically whenever they spoke to her. She carried her bitterness into habilitation, where she lashed out emotionally with indifference and negativism. The

Acoustically Impaired Environments

35

child never overcame her hostility toward the hearing world even in adulthood. Another three-year-old, realizing that people had suddenly become soundless, sought out other kinds of noises, and went about the house banging pots and pans, hitting furniture, slamming drawers, doing anything that previous experience had told her produced noise. Her face would light up whenever any of the noises penetrated the wall of silence. This child took to the hearing aid with joy. The former child with customary negativism. Another example of sudden deafness in childhood concerns a seven-yearold w h o came down with spinal meningitis and had to be hospitalized. The ensuing events are as alive in the mind of the now adult narrator as if they happened yesterday: When I woke up I was in a strange small white room all by myself. My first sensory impression was music in my head. It went on endlessly and 1 was positive it was coming from next door. It became so annoying that I began to bang on the wall to get it to stop. Eventually it did. A day or two later, my parents appeared for the first time. My mother stood in the doorway and did not come in. She was overcome with emotion. However, my father walked over to me and began to talk with deliberately exaggerated mouth movements. I understood him perfectly well. I thought I was hearing him, and that because of my prior experiences with the strange noiseless yet noisy environment, I suspected that I would also have to mouth to my father in order to be understood. And that is how we communicated. A day or two later, I asked my father why I could not hear his voice. He said that because we were on the 10th floor of the hospital where the air is very thin, nobody could hear, and everybody had to watch the mouth. He told me this was called Iipreading, and that that was the way everyone was communicating here on the 10th floor. At that point I asked about my sister who had been hospitalized at the same time, also with meningitis. Does she have the same problem? No, he replied, because she is on the 8th floor, and that hearing problems began only on the 10th floor. Then why couldn't I join her on the 8th floor, I wanted to know. He replied that the 8th floor was only for babies, and since I was a big boy of seven, I would be very unhappy there. After about a week, I was moved into a ward where the beds were separated by glass partitions. Much to my joy, my sister was wheeled into the compartment next to mine, still on the 10th floor. I assumed that her move upstairs would now result in her being unable to hear, and that I had a head start over her in Iipreading. However, I was due for a rude shock when my parents came on their next visit. They continued to " t a l k " to me in that old laborious mouthy movement; but when they spoke to Norma, communication seemed very natural and unforced. I noticed the difference immediately and became very perplexed. I wanted to know how come my sister was able to hear even though she was on the 10th floor where the air was thin. My father answered that my sister had a natural aptitude for Iipreading, and that I had better practice harder. As the big brother, I felt very put out, and resolved to become the best lipreader on the 10th floor. A month passed and we were on our way home. One of my most vivid recol-

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lections w a s w h e n w e e m e r g e d into the bright s u n n y street looking for a taxi to take us h o m e . I strained f o r the h e a r i n g I fully e x p e c t e d to return n o w that I w a s o n street level. But n o such thing h a p p e n e d . A g a i n c a m e t h e q u e s t i o n i n g , and again m y f a t h e r w a s prepared with an a n s w e r . This t i m e 1 was told that b e c a u s e I h a d been u p on t h e 10th floor f o r so long, it w o u l d take t i m e f o r my h e a r i n g to return. I had to b e patient. I c o n t i n u e d to o b s e r v e m y sister and her r e m a r k a b l e lipreading ability; and then o n e day 1 c a m e to the conclusion that she w a s able to hear after all. I bec a m e angry and j e a l o u s , a n d for the first time began to question my f a t h e r ' s h o n e s t y with m e . I b e g a n to ask m o r e and m o r e f r e q u e n t l y w h e n m y hearing would return, until finally my f a t h e r c o u l d find no m o r e e v a s i o n s . He s u m m a r i z e d the m a t t e r b y saying that p e o p l e recover f r o m these p r o b l e m s at d i f f e r e n t rates, and I m u s t b e patient; and a b o v e all c o n t i n u e gaining lipreading proficiency. M y return to m y old school w a s a j o y o u s occasion f o r me; but p r o b l e m s quickly arose, with the teacher continually running in exasperation to the principal saying that 1 w a s h o l d i n g b a c k the class. T h e y k n e w that I was n o w d e a f , and they c o u l d n ' t c o p e with it. Soon thereafter I entered m y first school f o r the d e a f , a day s c h o o l . T h e m o v e was filled with t r a u m a for m e , since for the first t i m e the fact of d e a f n e s s b e g a n to settle in on m e as a p e r m a n e n t condition. I w o u l d not accept it and r e f u s e d to identify with d e a f n e s s . In fact I w o u l d not even use the w o r d " d e a f . " I p r e f e r r e d " c a n ' t h e a r . " I r e m a i n e d at this school a m o n t h , and w a s then transferred to a residential school f o r the deaf on t h e advice of the f a m i l y physician. He probably thought such a setting would reconcile m e t o d e a f n e s s . It did not. I felt as if I w e r e in a prison, and that m y heret o f o r e loving parents had rejected m e and put m e a w a y . T o m a k e matters w o r s e , m y lack of identification with d e a f n e s s h a d s o m e h o w created the i m p r e s s i o n a m o n g the staff that I w a s either emotionally disturbed or mentally retarded. F r o m the third g r a d e in hearing school I w a s n o w placed in t h e kindergarten. It w a s only after I picked u p a p i e c e of chalk and wrote m y n a m e and address on t h e b l a c k b o a r d that the teacher began to suspect I had been improperly p l a c e d . M y u n h a p p i n e s s in the residential school took its toll o n m y health and e m o tions. I b e g a n to lose weight and to b e d - w e t . A l t h o u g h I c a m e h o m e on w e e k e n d s , I still felt rejected. Finally after a m o n t h of endless frustration and m i s e r y , m y parents c o n v i n c e d m e that a return to the day school w o u l d be a m u c h happier m o v e b e c a u s e I could c o m e h o m e every d a y . T h i n g s b e g a n to i m p r o v e after that. I settled d o w n s o m e h o w , b e g a n to m a k e m y p e a c e with d e a f n e s s , and p r o g r e s s e d so well scholastically that thanks to m y lipreading proficiency a m o n g other things I w a s able to enter a hearing high school on graduation and c o m plete my education in the regular schools and universities. M o s t of m y f r i e n d s w e r e hearing p e r s o n s . A s I said, I m a d e my p e a c e with d e a f n e s s , but it took a great m a n y years b e f o r e I c o u l d fully accept t h e deaf world and participate in the deaf c o m m u nity. I still feel the e m o t i o n a l scars of m y early e x p e r i e n c e s . (Personal c o m m u n i c a t i o n to author.)

The narrator of these experiences is now a distinguished member of the deaf professional community. He contributes these painful reminiscences so that professional personnel and bewildered parents alike will be alert to the con-

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sternation and anger that sudden deafness arouses in a child whose hunger to hear is still active and alive and has not been stilled by deafness. In Adulthood For hearing adults to be suddenly plunged into silence can be an even more shattering experience than for children. Terror, panic, and disorientation are common first reactions: terror at being cast out of a lifelong environment; panic at being out of touch with reality; disorientation at being trapped in a place with neither acoustic substance nor auditory input. The victim feels as if blinded by silence. After the initial shock has somewhat abated, a variety of ego-blows begin to inflict their depressing messages on the deafened. The alarm clock no longer arouses them to their importance in the world's work. There is no familiar household bustle to welcome them when they come home; no outside sounds to keep them informed of the passing scene. Former diversions cannot ease their grief and mourning. Radio, television, music, the theater, carefree get-togethers with friends—none of these old reliables can comfort them with their magic. Even their bodies have joined the rank of soundless things. They talk and cannot hear the sounds of their voices. They cough, and again there is no sound. They walk and there is no accompanying footfall. They feel like creatures detached even from themselves. The only magic they now have to look forward to takes the form of communication aids and therapies, and these are viewed as crutches for a cripple. A rare opportunity for the systematic study of a sizable group of deafened persons was offered by the deafened veterans of World War II, and was collaboratively conducted by the Psychiatric and the Hearing Services divisions of Deshon General Hospital (Knapp, 1948). The subjects were soldiers with varying amounts of hearing loss, but in most cases reportedly " s u d d e n . " The most significant feeling-tone reported was loneliness; the most common fear, that of being thought stupid; and the most keenly felt anxiety, insecurity in social situations. Somatic complaints were also reported, particularly tension headaches. A universally felt lack was the loss of daily background sounds, with associated anxieties felt in regard to traffic, crowds, inability to hear an alarm clock or an order. Also missed were the sounds of nature—the rain, the wind, birds, and the like. The tension of silence, as of holding one's breath until sound breaks through, was a common source of distress. The relationship between amount of hearing loss and the effect upon the social organism is summarized by Knapp as follows: At the threshold of incapacitation, patients were not greatly dependent; frequently their sole complaint w a s that the world did not talk loudly enough.

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More often they spoke of how great a strain it was to hear, especially in groups. Still it was possible to "get b y " socially. In the 5 0 - 7 0 decibel range, more marked impairment appeared. It often led to a more grossly abnormal facial expression and mannerisms, as well as to more severe emotional reactions, especially of withdrawal. The effort necessary to maintain social bonds sometimes hardly seemed worthwhile. The totally deaf patients felt that these bonds were definitely ruptured. Lipreading, though useful, could not substitute for the quickness and warmth of words that were heard. The men had to adjust as best they could to partial isolation and helplessness. (1948, p. 207)

Knapp also noted differences between cases of true sudden deafness and those with histories of chronic auditory impairment. The study suggests that although patients with true sudden deafness are more apt to be "tinged with depression," they are psychologically more flexible than the chronic cases who have over time "reached equilibrium"; that although the latter experience a less drastic sense of loss, it is a more warping one. The trauma of true sudden loss tends to generate more intense struggles than the gradual pace of progressive impairment, and it is thus more accessible to treatment. Individual reactions of the subjects supported the finding, in studies of other types of deafness, that the ultimate determinant of adjustment lies with the premorbid personality structure. Where the structure is unhealthy, mild loss can cause profound disturbance; where the structure is sound, the problems of even severe loss can be managed. The compensatory strategies employed in successful adjustment are essentially the same as those summarized earlier from Menninger for progressive deafness. The neurotic defenses are also the same. These are roughly classified by Knapp as follows: (1) "overcompensated," outgoing, striving, an exaggerated display of jovial behavior with great emphasis on talking rather than listening; (2) denial of hearing loss; (3) retreat from society; (4) neurotic displacement of anxiety into the sphere of somatic preoccupations and complaints; and (5) neurotic exploitation of hearing loss, with the hearing aid used as a "badge of invalidism." Quite likely the full impact of sudden hearing loss on most of Knapp's subjects was lessened as a result of the rehabilitation services they were receiving. It is particularly interesting, therefore, to note the reactions of hearing subjects who were experimentally deafened for twenty-four hours, as reported by Meyerson (1948). His subjects, a number of children and college students, had the advantage of knowing that their handicap was temporary; but even so the investigator notes the appearance of "bored, stupid, or inappropriate behavior," evidences of fatigue and irritability, change in quality and intensity of voice, and a tendency to "preoccupation." The college students further reported feelings of frustration and aggression resulting from their inability to fully understand oral communication, and a tendency to give up and withdraw from further frustrations. Among the chil-

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dren's reactions were increased tension and restlessness, increased alertness to nonverbal clues, decreased initiative in seeking social contacts, and either delayed reaction to oral communication or no reaction. As summarized by Cornell, who subjected himself to a similar experiment for seven days, "They (the deafened) are living in a partial auditory vacuum—a world of silence mixed with distorted and unfamiliar sounds" (1950, p. 14), a fair summation of dissonant input from an acoustically shattered environment. Congenital Deafness Of the three acoustically damaged environments reviewed in this chapter, that created by profound congenital deafness is the least traumatic emotionally but imposes the most severe and most sweeping deprivations developmentally. The victim experiences no emotional shock through lost hearing because there never was any meaningful hearing to lose. But developmentally , the absence of meaningful sound since birth means the absence of sounds that bring language and information, that stir feelings, influence actions and attitudes, confirm identity, allow expressive release, impart esthetic pleasure, and unite the individual to the company of humankind. And this, in turn, means the absence of sounds necessary for normal processes of enculturation, maturation, and adaptation. Such is the environment of those traditionally termed "the d e a f . " The unique human problems so created, and their wide ramifications, are reviewed in the chapters that follow. We pause here to lay the groundwork by discussing the historic difficulties in conceptualizing the human products of a soundless environment. Who are the deaf? From ancient times until well into the Middle Ages, the deaf were considered uneducable, hence fools, idiots, scarcely human (Hodgson, 1954). They were treated accordingly. It was not until the sixteenth century that doubt was cast on this stereotype by the first tutors to the deaf, who had been entrusted with the education of the deaf scions of noble houses. Their miraculous success inspired others to try their hand at teaching the deaf. Gradually the concept gained ground that the deaf were not only humans but educable humans. The scope of education broadened. During the following centuries, schools were established for all the deaf, not only the favored few, and specialists from other disciplines became involved in this education. Eventually the need to identify and define "the d e a f " for census and educational purposes became a practical necessity. In the United States, examples of the difficulties of definition reach back to the beginning efforts of the Federal Census Bureau. In the early nineteenth century, before the teaching of speech to the deaf had become common, deaf persons were simply designated as "deaf and d u m b . " But when

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T H E ENVIRONMENTAL IMPERATIVE

speech teaching became accepted procedure, "dumb" was no longer appropriate, and the deaf were defined as persons who had lost their hearing before the age of 16 years and were unable to talk because they could not hear. In 1890, the speech criterion acquired even stronger emphasis, and the deaf were defined as only those who were also "dumb"; deaf persons who could speak were not included in the category. The concept was soon abandoned, and the next census defined as deaf all who could not understand loudly shouted conversation. This raised a furor among hard-of-hearing persons whose hearing losses had become profound. They were appalled at being classed with the "deaf and dumb" stereotype. At this point, the Bureau of the Census decided to settle the issue by casting all definitions into one hamper. The classification " d e a f " now included children under 8 years of age who were totally deaf, older persons who could not understand loudly shouted conversation even with the help of a hearing aid, and adults who were born deaf or had been totally deaf from childhood. Understandably this strategy too was doomed to failure, and in 1930 the Bureau of the Census conceded defeat, washed its hands of the deaf, and left the job of defining and enumerating them to whatever other agencies were courageous enough to undertake the task. The problem of definition was not dropped with the failure of the Bureau of the Census. Educators of the deaf, in particular, needed to know how many children and how wide a range of hearing losses they were expected to serve so that adequate instructional provisions could be made. The struggle therefore continued, with the deaf being shifted about from one definition to another. The next major efforts were made by the White House Conference on Child Health and Protection (1931) and by the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf (1938). In the former effort, the main criterion for definition and for differentiating " d e a f " from "hard of hearing" involved the usability of hearing for the acquisition of speech and language (p. 277); and in the latter, the functional use of hearing "for the ordinary purposes of life" (pp. 2-3). Neither definition inspired field consensus. In the meantime, rehabilitation of the deaf was gaining a sure place in the field, accompanied by a variety of rehabilitation specialties, each with its own concept of " d e a f " and its own classification of hearing impairments. The result was a definition explosion. At the first national conference held in this country to develop uniform statistics and definitions of deafness {Proceedings, Conference on the Collection of Statistics of Severe Hearing Impairments and Deafness, 1964), it was reported that "there are at least six [different definitions of " d e a f " ] from as many different professional areas, such as the definition of the audiologist, the rehabilitation worker, the social worker, the psychologist,

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the otologist, and the educator of the d e a f " (p. 2). The estimate of six definitions advanced to seven in 1974 with the term "pre-vocationally d e a f , " coined by Schein and Delk for enumerating the deaf population of the United States; the term includes "those persons who could not hear and understand speech and who had lost (or never had) that ability prior to 19 years of a g e " (1974, p. 2). The prevalence of such persons is estimated by the investigators as 200 per 100,000 population. And seven definitions advanced to eight in 1975 with that used in Public Law 94-142, namely "a hearing impairment which is so severe that the child's hearing is non-functional for the purposes of educational performance." At about the same time, a number of definitions proposed by an Ad Hoc Committee to Define Deaf and Hard of Hearing were accepted by the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf (Report of the Ad Hoc Committee, 1975). Included among them are "General Definitions," "Definitions," "Definitions for Educational and Research Considerations," "Definitions Related to Age of Onset," and "Associated Descriptions of Educational Deafness." The general definitions are as follows: Hearing impairment. A generic term indicating a hearing disability which may range in severity from mild to profound: it includes the subsets of deaf and hard of hearing. A deaf person is one whose hearing disability precludes successful processing of linguistic information through audition, with or without a hearing aid. A hard of hearing person is one who, generally with the use of a hearing aid, has residual hearing sufficient to enable successful processing of linguistic information through audition. (1975, p. 509)

Since none of the foregoing definitions sufficiently describes the target population of this book, definitions are bypassed here in favor of the following descriptive summary of " d e a f " : The deaf constitute a minority population of persons with potentially normal mental and psychological endowments, 1. Whose physical impairment lies in severe, irreversible damage to the sensori-neural and/or cortical structures necessary for normal hearing, a condition which is present since birth or from the formative years of childhood and is not amenable to current medical or surgical treatment; 2. Whose disability is a loss of functional hearing of such severity that the ability to understand conversational speech through hearing is severely impaired even with the help of a hearing aid; 3. Whose major handicaps stem from the resultant break in the lines of auditory contact with environment, a condition which possesses the potential to:

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a. b. c. d.

Limit the intake of messages mainly to visual channels; Prevent the normal acquisition of all forms of verbal language; Reduce or eliminate input of the emotional correlates of sound; Impair the establishment of normal communicative exchange with society; e. Hamper the processes of enculturation and adaptation. Included in the deaf minority are numbers of hearing-impaired persons who are " d e a f " by preference rather than definition, who find life more fulfilling and comfortable in the deaf world than as "crippled" members of hearing society. The singular environment in which the deaf are reared is potentially as narrowed psychologically as it is deadened acoustically. Although it is often referred to as a "soundless world," certain acoustic forces do break through in many instances; but these are experienced mainly as noises. What does not come through is the flow of the voice, and herein lies the devastating deprivation of a soundless world. When the voice is not heard in its natural form and flow, neither are words. When words are not heard from birth onward, they cannot be learned in the natural way. If they remain unlearned, normal encounters with the world suffer stark disruption. Something of what this means is expressed in the following analogy: If 1 had the power to forbid you to communicate, forbid you to listen, to speak, to read or to write, I could reduce you in one stroke to intellectual slavery. I could reduce your environment and social structure to that of an animal. 1 could completely stop the teaching-learning process. I could lock your intellect. (Welling, 1954, pp. 1 - 2 )

The degree to which congenital deafness can inflict its handicaps depends largely on the habilitative strategies used to fill the environmental voids. The human outcomes reflect habilitation's successes or failures, as discussed in later chapters. In the meantime, we ponder the question whether it is better to have heard and lost, or never to have heard at all. The Environment of Societal Attitudes

To society at large, impaired hearing is an irritating block to quick, easy communication. If there is to be contact with the person behind the block, a barrier needs to be negotiated. But this takes understanding and patience—a patience to which modern living is not geared, an understanding that society has not yet attained. In addition, society commonly reacts with aversion to physical deviations, especially to such incomprehensible ones as impaired hearing, which does

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not show, hence provides no clues to its impact or effects. As Hardy once described the situation, the victim " 'limps' only socially, 'fumbles' only psychologically, 'stumbles' only vocationally" (1952, p. 1). The acoustically impaired environments responsible for such cripplings remain invisible. At the other extreme of misunderstanding is society's naive faith in the magic of lipreading and the hearing aid to effect complete restoration of function, and the confusion that ensues when the magic fails to produce the expected result. "There must be something else wrong with him" is the public verdict. But possibly the cruelest practice of all is the "comic figure" stereotype so frequently attached to hearing-impaired individuals. Peck, Samuelson, and Lehman tell of their personal experiences with attitudes in connection with progressive deafness: Every deafened person knows, and knows well, the sting of contempt. It is shown so quietly and unobtrusively: . . . in the office, the church, the circle of friends, the family group, and even in the home. . . . We have observed the husband whose contempt for his deafened wife extends to all deafened women of middle age; the wife whose husband is bravely realizing deafness and who accentuates his deficiency on all occasions. We have observed the victims of such contempt; the slightly hard of hearing young woman, well-bred, welleducated and not unpleasing in appearance, dropping out of society because she is so resolutely cold-shouldered that self-respect will not permit her to continue. We have seen a young girl who is struggling with developing deafness criticized by her mother for lack of social success, while her sister, with normal hearing, makes it a practice never to introduce her to the members of any group. We have known a businessman who won his way to conspicuous success through the gathering mists of deafness, hard-headed and heavy-fisted, determined and dour. His family enjoys every luxury that his wealth can supply, yet he sits at his table, silent and lonely. And who has not seen a deafened person wait with a resigned or bitter smile for the end of a colloquy carried on in an undertone, regardless of his presence, by the members of a hearing group who would be genuinely shocked if they could realize the full cruelty of their casual rudeness! . . . Is it not natural, then, that deafened people should seek their own kind? (1926, pp. 117-18)

Rosenthal sums up in the statement, "Suspicion of the hearing-impaired is deeply rooted in our culture and has been more fierce and durable than stigmas affixed to people with other handicaps" (1975, p. 95). Rosenthal, too, speaks from personal experience. As to the deaf, Sussman (himself a congenitally deaf person) tells of the effects of adverse public attitudes upon the self-concept of deaf persons. He relates that attitudes of the hearing toward the deaf are a "burning issue" in deaf society, "particularly where attitudes are devaluative, depreciative and discriminatory" (1976, p. 9). They can be an annoyance, a "thorn in the

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side," and even an obsession. He goes on to say that the deaf do not consider deafness per se to be their chief handicap, but rather the negative attitudes of hearing society. In his study of 129 deaf adults, Sussman found significant relationships between their self-concepts and their perceptions of attitudes of others toward deafness, with self-concepts contaminated by devaluating attitudes. He explains: One may raise the question as to whether attitudes as perceived by deaf people are in tune with reality. The possibility of misperception or misinterpretation undoubtedly does exist. Nonetheless, we ourselves have also to be in tune with reality. Deaf people are discriminated against in more ways than one. They do experience discrimination and devaluative attitudes even within the field of deafness itself. Prejudice against deaf people is still rampant in our society despite increasing enlightenment. Deaf people have been hurt and treated badly by society especially when it comes to employment opportunity and job mobility. It is a rare deaf person who has not as a child been ostracized, ridiculed, and denigrated by nondisabled children. Such memories are painfully poignant. (1976, p. 10)

Perhaps the most deeply resented attitude is the pervasive paternalism that enmeshes deaf people, with the chief offenders being parents, educators, and other professional persons who persist in regarding the deaf as "child r e n , " regardless of age. The harm inflicted upon hearing-handicapped persons by a denigrating society extends even into rehabilitation. Time and gain, the energies, expertise, and successes of conscientious rehabilitation personnel are completely undone by a society or employer who will not open the door to a deaf rehabilitant. This same situation characterizes other disability areas as well, despite the many earnest efforts to "educate the public" (Garrett and Levine, 1962, 1973). But the public, it turns out, is neither ready nor eager for direct confrontation with the facts of disability. In the field of the deaf, projects to inform the public are ongoing operations of all national and local organizations and concerned individuals. One example is the National Theatre of the Deaf. The original proposal to establish a national theater of the deaf was first submitted to the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation by this writer in the early 1960s. The inspiration was a brilliant performance of Othello by the Gallaudet College Dramatic Group. With the encouragement and help of Anne Bancroft, the noted actress, and of Mary Switzer, then Director of the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation, planning grant RD-974-5 was awarded the American National Theatre and Academy (ANTA) in 1961 to set up a plan of operation. Although the plan was approved in principle, it could not be funded at the time, and the project waited for several years until the Eugene O'Neill Me-

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morial Theatre Foundation, of which David Hays was an Administrative Vice-President, decided to reactivate the original proposal, with my permission and e n c o u r a g e m e n t . U n d e r the direction of David H a y s , the National Theatre of the Deaf has given a brilliant account of itself and of the talents of its deaf performers. In so doing, it has not only m a d e theatrical history, but more importantly has served a m a j o r advocacy function for the deaf in the ranks of the public at large. Another of my advocacy efforts focused on a different kind of population—non-deaf children. This focus was prompted by the problems encountered by many mainstreamed deaf children when exposed to regular-school pupils and personnel w h o were completely unfamiliar with the facts of prelinguistic d e a f n e s s . This particular " p u b l i c - e d u c a t i o n " strategy took the f o r m of an award-winning, illustrated book written for young hearing children to explain the meaning and ramifications of deafness in simple terms and with simple analogies (Levine, 1974). T h e hope was that inculcating understanding and attitudes of acceptance a m o n g the hearing at the child level would not only help mainstreamed deaf children but would also create lifelong attitudes of acceptance toward the deaf. T h e s e are only two of the many public-education strategies used in the field of the deaf. Inroads are indeed being m a d e in " r e h a b i l i t a t i n g " the attitudes of society toward its hearing-impaired m e m b e r s , but much remains to be done.

Summary Comment T h e discussion in this chapter has t w o main purposes: first to disclose something of the grotesqueries of acoustically damaged environments; and second, to illustrate the behavioral repercussions that can ensue when h u m a n need is met by distorted environmental input. In this instance, both need and input involve damaged auditory links to environment, but the same pattern obtains for other needs and other links. In all instances, ravaged human environments lead to impaired psychological environments; and impaired psychological environments to disturbed human behavior.

References Berry, G. 1933. The psychology of progressive deafness. Reprint. Journal of the American Medical Association, 101: 2-3. Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf. 1938. Report of the Conference Committee on Nomenclature. American Annals of the Deaf, 83: 1-3. Cornell, C. B. 1950. Hard of hearing for seven days. Hearing News, 18(3-4): 14.

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Fowler, E. P. 1951. Emotional factors in otosclerois. Reprint. Laryngoscope, 61: 2. Garrett, J. F., and Levine, E. S. 1962. Psychological Practices with the Physically Disabled. New York: Columbia University Press. Garrett, J. F. and Levine, E. S. 1973. Rehabilitation Practices with the Physically Disabled. New York: Columbia University Press. Gifford, M. F. and Bowler, M. L. 1942. Quoted in C. G. Bluett, comp. Handbook of Information for the Hard of Hearing Adult. Sacramento, Calif.: California State Department of Education. Hardy, W. G. 1952. Children with Impaired Hearing: An Audiologic Perspective. Children's Bureau Publication No. 326. Hodgson, K. W. 1954. The Deaf and Their Problems. New York: Philosophical Library. Hunt, W. W. 1944. Progressive deafness rehabilitation. Laryngoscope, May, pp. 4 - 5 . Reprint. Knapp, P. H. 1948. Emotional aspects of hearing loss. Psychosomatic Medicine, 10: 203-22. Lehmann, R. R. 1954. Bilateral sudden deafness. New York State Journal of Medicine, May 15, pp. 1481-88. Levine, E. S.. 1956. Youth in a Soundless World. New York: New York University Press. Levine, E. S. 1974. Lisa and Her Soundless World. New York: Human Sciences Press. Menninger, K. A. 1924. The mental effects of deafness. Psychoanalytic Review, 11: 146. Meyerson, L. 1948. Experimental injury: An approach to the dynamics of physical disability. Journal of Social Issues, 4: 6 8 - 7 1 . Peck, A. W., Samuelson, E. E., and Lehman, A. 1926. Ears and the Man: Studies in Social Work for the Deafened. Philadelphia: F. A. Davis Co. Pintner, R., Eisenson, J., and Stanton, M. 1941. The Psychology of the Physically Handicapped. New York: F. S. Crofts & Co. Proceedings, Conference on the Collection of Statistics of Severe Hearing Impairments and Deafness in the United States. 1964. Bethesda, Md.: Public Health Services, National Institute of Neurological Diseases and Blindness, National Institutes of Health, HEW. Report of the Ad Hoc Committee to Define Deaf and Hard of Hearing. 1975. American Annals of the Deaf, 120: 509-12. Roberts, J., and Federico, J. V. 1972. Hearing sensitivity and related medical findings among children. Vital and Health Statistics, Series 11, No. 114. Rosenthal, R. 1975. The Hearing Loss Handbook. New York: St. Martin's Press. Schein, J. D., and Deik, M. T. 1974. The Deaf Population of the United States. Silver Spring, Md.: National Association of the Deaf. Sussman, A. E. 1976. Attitudes toward deafness: A dimension of personality. Hearing Rehabilitation Quarterly, 2: 9 - 1 0 . Van Horn, M. 1929. In a discussion of: The mental effects of deafness, by R. Brickner. Volta Review, 31: 413. Warfield, F. 1957. Keep Listening. New York: Viking Press.

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Washington, M. L. 1942. Quoted in Federal Security Agency, Rehabilitation of the Deaf and the Hard of Hearing: A Manual for Case Workers. Vocational Rehabilitation Series Bulletin No. 26. Washington, D.C.: Office of Education. Washington, M. L . , ed. 1958. Hearing Loss . . . A Community Loss. Washington, D.C.: American Hearing Society. Welling, D. M. 1954. Communicate! Utah Eagle, 65 (March): 1 - 2 . White House Conference on Child Health and Protection, 1931. Section III, The Deaf and the Hard of Hearing. New York: Century Co. Zeckel, A. 1950. Psychopathological aspects of deafness. Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, 112: 3 3 7 - 4 0 . Reprint.

Part Two

PRELINGUISTIC DEAFNESS: KEY FASHIONING ENVIRONMENTS

3 Early Environmental Influences Everything he knows as a human being, man has had to learn from other human beings. Montagu, Man: His First Two Million Years

FOR CHILDREN who cannot hear, adaptive demand stems from a mesh of generally confusing, frequently confused, and often discordant environments. There is the immediate environment created by deafness—the soundless world—into which congenitally deaf children are born. There is the sociocultural environment created by the hearing and for the hearing, but to which deaf children are expected to adapt. There is the human environment composed of parents, family, and an assortment of other authority figures including professional personnel, who too often have as little understanding of deaf children as the children have of them. There is a variety of special education environments created by the hearing for the deaf which represent a deaf child's principal formative milieu. There is the child's intrapersonal environment, the inner self, that strives to come to adaptive terms with the demands of the other environments, and failing this, to fend off psychic insult through a variety of behavioral and psychopathological strategies. Finally, there is an environment of labels, stereotypes, and definitions that await a deaf child even before it is born. A frequent question is whether the deaf inhabitants of this environmental mesh have a "different" psychology from the hearing. In answer, it can only be said that the psychological development of deaf individuals is subject to the same principles as for the rest of mankind. It is not the deaf person's psychology that is innately different—it is the deaf person's environment that is unique. People who are deaf are psychologically normal human

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beings striving to adjust to a hearing society in the face of subnormal environmental input and abnormal environmental pressures.

The Infant Environment Children who are born deaf are closest to their hearing peers in environmental input and behavior during early infancy. At this threshold stage of life, all infants are protected from excessive environmental stimulation and assault because of their incompletely developed sensory systems. Environment is sensed rather than perceived. As described by Gesell and Ilg: the young baby senses the visible world at first in fugitive and fluctuating blotches against a neutral background. Sounds likewise may be heard as shreds of wavering distinctness against a neutral background of silence or of continuous undertone. Doubtless he feels the pressure of his seven pound weight as he lies on his back. Perhaps this island of pressure sensation is at the very core of his vague and intermittent sense of self. He also feels from time to time the vigorous movements which he makes with his mouth, arms, and legs. Doubtless he has delightful moments of subjectivity at the end of a repleting meal and he has episodes of distress from hunger and cold. Such experiences in association with strivings impart vividness to the early mental life of the baby even though the outer world is still almost without form and void. ( 1 9 4 3 , p. 22)

At this time, the infant has no notion of where he ends and environment begins. So far as he is concerned, all is one; and the one is largely a mass of sensory impressions. The groundwork for awareness of self is laid when developmental changes in the sensory and neuromuscular systems act to propel the infant into physiologically compatible explorations of environment. It is out of these explorations that the self gradually emerges as distinct from surroundings. The implication of these early events is that input from the sensorially dimmed outer environment of hearing infants in the first weeks of life is much the same as from the sensorially impaired outer environment of deaf infants of the same age. In both cases, behavior is regulated by similarly patterned inner environments composed of innate factors, reflexes, instincts, sensory impressions, feelings of comfort/discomfort, and the like. Therefore, observed behaviors are so similar that it is well-nigh impossible to tell the deaf baby from the hearing one. Nor is it likely that any suspicion of deafness will flash a warning to an enchanted observer of a behaving deaf infant. It is also unlikely that behavioral differences will be observed when, in the course of maturation, organism and outer environment begin to form their mutually interacting pact for the differentiation and internalization of

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experiences. This is so because it is vision that plays the leading role in an infant's first efforts at independent environmental exploration. As expressed by Gesell and Amatruda, "infants are bom with visual hunger" and "in the early months looking is half of living" (1947, p. 257). There is logic to this developmental sequence. In order for infants to motorically explore their new world, they must first have some idea of its "geography." Vision provides such clues. At this stage, deaf and hearing infants are both visual creatures. At the same time that this new world is coming into sharper visual focus, the infant's developing neuromuscular system is sparking a push toward motor exploration. "As once he showed visual hunger, now he shows touch hunger" (Gesell and Amatruda, 1947, p. 101). The infant reaches out to touch, feel, taste, probe, accompanying all these actions by automatic vocalizations. Again, the pattern of behavior is the same for deaf as for hearing infants. Although the events involved in this very early organism/environment interplay are instigated by complex physiological processes, an infant is not a robot. Psychological elements are present even as the infant's " s e l f " begins to emerge from the initial mass of sensory impressions. The self can be felt as a successful self, a distressed self, a frustrated self, or a non-self, depending upon how well environmental input meets bio-maturational need. The infant feels himself a successful self when he needs to look, and there are satisfying things for him to see; when he needs to touch, and there are gratifying things for him to feel; when he needs to be relieved of discomforts, and there is succor. He is a distressed, frustrated, or non-self when his developmental needs are neglected or are not met at the right time, in the right way, or in the right amount, as Ruesch (1957) would say. These latter babies are already victims of environmental deprivation, and they register the results in personality and behavior, as shown by institution-syndrome infants (Dennis, 1960; Spitz, 1945). The successful self, on the other hand, reaches out to environmental unknowns with healthy curiosity and with feelings of security acquired in the course of previously satisfying excursions into the environment. The time soon comes when visual and motor inputs are not enough to satisfy the push toward broader environmental interplay. The infant is already acquiring a grasp of the geography and " f e e l " of his small, immediate world. The " w i s d o m " of development now decrees input from sources outside the range of sight and touch in preparation for enculturation. This need is met by the sense of hearing. At the same time that visual and motor needs are being met, the sense of hearing is occupied with refining and decoding the blur of sounds in its perceptive environment. As auditory discrimination

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sharpens, the sense of hearing begins to take on heightened and purposeful listening. A cardinal purpose is to pave the way for linguistic interplay with the human environment. Observable differences between deaf and hearing babies appear when the results of sound-awareness begin to be manifested in behavior. As hearing babies become increasingly aware of the sounds in their environment, the visual and touch hungers that guided their earlier explorations are gradually matched if not exceeded by auditory hunger. At first, sound was just another diffuse element in the baby's undifferentiated state, and infant vocalizations were a motor-automatic manifestation. But as babies begin to attend to this particular sensation and as discrimination sharpens, they gradually come to perceive differences in the sounds around them and to discover that they themselves are a source of some of these sounds, a discovery that stimulates increasing vocalizations. Bit by bit, the differences take on meanings. One kind of sound informs the baby that someone is hurrying to him; another brings to mind a rattle; still another means that food is on the way; and soon babies discover that they can control and interact with the human elements in the environment through variations in the sounds they themselves produce. Long before a baby is aware of words, it is alert to the fact that sounds embody concepts, and that concepts embody meanings. What is more, the infant reacts to familiar sound-concepts mentally, emotionally, and socially; and to unfamiliar ones with curiosity bent on mastery. As maturation proceeds, the sounds of speech come within the babies' range of auditory discrimination. The stream of spoken language that flows into their ears begins to take on verbal form. And now their earlier practice in associating gross sounds with conceptual equivalents stands them in good stead. They merely apply the same principle in associating word-sounds with their conceptual equivalents. But always, the word that is heard gains its meaning from the concept or experience with which the baby is already familiar. Without this frame of reference, words remain just sounds and nothing more. The whole cycle of language acquisition soon becomes a wonderful game. The baby listens, imitates, practices, experiments. More and more wordsounds find their way into the experiential frame; more and more are reproduced. Language begins to fill an expressive as well as a receptive need, and in due course comes to be used for thinking as well as for communicating with others. Eventually language and concept fuse, and the child is well on the way to becoming a verbal being and full heir to the developmental benefits bestowed by hearing. But long before this happens, the baby has been responding to concepts even though they were contained in gross sounds alone. Babies are conceptual beings long before they become verbalized ones, just as was their ances-

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tor of prehistory who invented verbal language even before possessing the words in which to embody his thoughts. In contrast, without the stimulus of sound, a deaf baby's vocalizations gradually diminish and in time cease. There is no beginning speech, no speech at all. There is usually some response to various noises and other loud sounds or to their felt vibrations. But all this does is to convey the false impression that this is a hearing baby. This does not mean that deaf babies do not put two and two together and come up with a concept. Whereas hearing babies listen, deaf babies watch. They watch for clues from facial expressions, gestures, objects, activities. They try to abstract meaning from the unfamiliar by watching a course of events and observing the outcome. However, the impaired, unaided, and untrained auditory mechanism does not supply the kinds of information the babies need as a foundation for interpersonal exchange and enculturation. Thus, while the baby who hears is forging ahead developmentally by virtue of lines of auditory communication, the one who does not hear is left behind in a soundless world.

The Soundless Environment: Pre-detection Phase Deaf babies are blissfully unaware that their hearing peers are profiting from auditory experiences that will never be theirs. There are still many exciting visual attractions in the soundless world to spark curiosity and compel investigation. The alert deaf baby makes associations, performs abstractions, coordinates experiences into elementary operations of intelligence, and otherwise conceals deafness by achieving remarkable mental feats guided mainly by visual input and propelled by curiosity and exploratory hungers. As these babies grow to early childhood, their deafness still undetected, they see a whole new world unfolding about them. The visual and motor hungers that propelled their earlier excursions into environment are now exceeded by an intense mental hunger. The children want to know the whys and wherefores of what they see. Surging through their minds are many questions that seeing alone cannot answer. " W h o is t h a t ? " they would like to know. " W h y do they do that? What does this mean? Where are we going? What will happen to me? Why? Why? W h y ? " But they cannot ask, for they have no words; no words to ask, no words to understand. Never having heard any, they do not even know such things as words exist. So the world remains a silent motion picture, and their questions remain unanswered. The children can only feel the strain and tensions of their wish to know, of the need to satisfy the psychological imperatives of development. Alert children continue to " h i d e " their deafness by responding actively and intelligently to many of the challenges in their small life sphere. They

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play, they explore, they think things out for themselves. They even effect communicative links with the hearing environment. They receive messages by reasoning from facial expression and body movements in relation to a given situation. They transmit messages through privately invented systems of gestures and pantomime. But as time goes on, these are not enough. Gestures cannot keep pace with a child's growing mind. They convey only rudimentary messages. The need to know extends far beyond these. As for receiving messages, this too becomes increasingly difficult. The children see people about them working lips and faces at one another with intent and purpose and are aware that something important is taking place; but they cannot fathom what it is. They watch silent people responding soundlessly to one another and cannot grasp the magic that conveys messages between them, initiates their responses, and directs their behavior. The members of their own hearing families try to bring them within their circle through these same strange means; but even they cannot break through the walls of silence that separates the deaf child not only from them but from all others as well. As for the families, they are uneasily aware that the child is somehow "different," but they quiet anxiety by telling themselves that all will be well; it is just a matter of time. Thus many small deaf children find themselves trapped in communicative bondage. They may withdraw in apathy and dependence. But whatever the response, so long as deafness remains undetected, the walls remain. By way of contrast, for the child who hears, the air throbs with sounds that bring information, explanation, preparation; with sounds that stimulate emotional development and sustain emotional tonicity; that arouse curiosity, direct attention, influence action; that confirm identity and offer emotional release; above all, with sounds that bring language and effect enculturation. There are sounds that "impress, cajole, threaten, influence, inform, shape, deceive, conceal, alert, warn, question, query, explain, demonstrate, argue, and perhaps a few hundred m o r e " (Chapanis, 1971, p. 937). Simply by walking down the street with open ears, the hearing child is exposed to a cross-section of cultural input from a wide range of sources. The child hears the neighbors, playmates, passersby; discussions, quarrels, gossip, threats, jokes, accusation, cries, laughter, shouts; the sounds of the street —automobiles, the fire engine, the ambulance siren, airplanes overhead. Above all, such children hear themselves. All that they hear is grist to enculturation. Caught up as they are in the hubbub of living, hearing children feel the beat of life. Deaf children hear nothing of all this. Their "public," when they are very young, generally consists of the one or two persons in their immediate world who are closest to them, who are aware that these children are "different" without yet knowing why, and who try to effect some degree of meaningful

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communication with them. These persons are the deaf child's society; they interpret the meanings of its visual events. The kinds of information thus relayed depend on the particular event, on the skill and patience of the "interpreters," and on a child's own flair for piecing together isolated clues into meaningful wholes. Often the wholes thus painfully pieced together end up as misinterpretations. But even at best, no matter how skillful the human mediator and how intelligent the child, small deaf children still make only superficial contact with their cultural milieu and with a society that tends to recoil from those who are different. In contrast to their hearing peers, a deaf child's status is that of an onlooker hoping to get the point of what is happening, and longing to be taken into the flow of activities. Some deaf children are driven to fight for attention, or they may stand on the sidelines feeling that they are somehow different; they know not how. Feeling that they do not belong; they know not why. They only know that they are unable to participate like other children in the give and take of community happenings, that something is wrong; they know not what. Whether a deaf child becomes part of the give and take depends largely on the human mediator. All else being equal, it is this person's management that determines whether or not the child will slip away into the apathy of indifference, the helplessness of overdependence, the hostility of frustration; or whether the child will have the stamina and security to meet life head on. It is this person's attitudes and practices that determine whether or not a community will open the door to a small, different child. And, as a rule, it is this person's perceptions that first detect the possibility that the child's difference is due to deafness. In the usual course of events, the role of human mediator is first filled by parents, generally the mother. How great the handicaps are that may accrue from undetected deafness and from the forced dependence of small deaf children on mother-mediators is closely linked to parent reactions to deafness and maternal management of the child. Parent-Child Relations In applying principles of parent-child relations to deaf children, it is necessary to realize that in the majority of cases, deaf children are born to hearing parents and that most of these parents have had little if any previous experience with deafness. Their ideas about the disability are vague in the extreme, and their feelings are colored by the common misconceptions of society. It is also important to bear in mind that children often have a deep symbolic meaning to parents. For example, they may symbolize virility, an ex-

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tension of the ego, the means of attaining status, the ideal self, an outlet for "the things I couldn't do or have when I was a child." These values are derived from the parents' own early experiences and are therefore deeply rooted. When a deaf child is born to nondeaf parents, the emotional reaction is apt to derive its charge as much from the symbolic meaning of an impaired child as from the implications of deafness. These are some of the problems encountered on the parents' side of the wall of silence. As time goes by, others arise. Yet the principles of parentchild relations are not altered because of these circumstances. They remain an integral part of the developmental master plan in which early sensory input is intended to familiarize infants with the physical aspects of the world into which they were born; and early parent input, to lay the foundations for becoming a part of this world. How well a child succeeds depends on the soundness of the foundations; and this in turn depends on the nature of the child's early relationships with the first human "teachers"—the parents —and on the manner in which developmental imperatives are met. In the case of a deaf child, the need for healthy parent-child relations is doubly important, because of the psychological hazards involved in the close and confining dependence on parents that deafness forces on very young deaf children. Theories and patterns of parent-child relations are amply documented in the literature of psychology and psychiatry. The focus here is on common reactions of parents to a first deaf child, and the spillover into the child's developmental environment. Hearing Parents

When a healthy, seemingly nondisabled baby begins to behave in an atypical manner, parents are naturally concerned (Becker, 1976). At first it is hard to tell exactly what is wrong, and parents' expressions of anxiety are usually dismissed as overconcern. "Just wait," they are advised. "He'll outgrow i t . " They wait. The baby does not outgrow it. Concern mounts. As a rule, it is to the physician that parents first turn in their anxiety. But, as Fellendorf and Harrow (1970) report in a comprehensive survey of parent counseling-experiences, too many medical specialists lack expertise in diagnosing infant deafness, or are reluctant to be the bearers of sad tidings, or lack knowledge of referral resources for hearing-impaired babies and their parents. To add to the confusion, the child, in many instances, does react to certain sounds, giving the impression of being a hearing child. Again parents are offered the "he'll outgrow i t " placebo. And again they wait. Often the deafness is discovered only after prolonged periods of waiting in vain for speech to appear. In the meanwhile, concern heightens, bewilder-

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ment increases, suspicions about the child's mental abilities make their appearance, and doctor-shopping begins. The child, well aware of being the center of anxiety, begins to absorb the tensions that contaminate the developmental environment. A correct diagnosis, when it is finally made, does little to ease the situation. For hearing parents who know next to nothing about deafness, to have a child of their own "stigmatized" by this mysterious " d e a f and d u m b " affliction can be a shattering experience, particularly when, as so often happens, "cause is u n k n o w n . " McAree (1970) and Spradley and Spradley (1978) give sensitive personal accounts of the feelings experienced. Common first reactions are panic, guilt, blame, and despair. There is the mortification of having to inform relatives, friends, neighbors, a community. There is sometimes marital disruption. The waves of disturbance experienced by many hearing parents of a first deaf child commonly find release in various types of psychological defenses: overprotection, denial, rejection in different guises, open rejection, cureseeking, doctor-shopping, and outright consternation. T o make matters even more bewildering for the child, the type of parent behavior can change from day to day, depending on a parent's fluctuating moods, and reactions to the child can differ widely from one professional authority figure to another. The wonder is that a deaf child's psychological structure can withstand the buffeting of such erratic input. As for the parents, before they have had time to fully absorb the first shock, they find themselves facing a new problem: the matter of schooling. This is another agonizing period. Knowing that a child is deaf does not automatically mean knowing the ramifications of the disability, let alone the child's instructional needs, the various methods used, and the philosophies behind the methods. Yet educational decisions must be made, and soon; too much time has already been wasted through undetected deafness. But where to turn for help? Parents now turn to the team experts in hearing rehabilitation. And here they encounter the full force of dissension concerning terminology, school placement, communication methods, and more (Panel on Parent Education, 1974). They are told the child is " d e a f , " "severely hard of h e a r i n g , " "hearing impaired"; they are variously advised to send the child to a residential school, a day school, a day class, a regular class in a " h e a r i n g " school; they are lectured by proponents and opponents of oralism, total communication, acoupedics; they are given conflicting professional opinions on the subjects of hearing aids, lipreading, speech instruction, home teaching, home management. It is a strong parent who can emerge unshaken from such well-intentioned but discordant convictions. And still unanswered is the question: Which edu-

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cational philosophy best meets the needs and abilities of this particular child? Educational predictions for very young deaf children are as yet more a matter of clinical judgment based on the advisor's experience and expertise than of the questionable predictive ability of objective measures. What assurances are there, then, that the choice made is the right choice? These are no new questions. They have tormented every parent of a first deaf child since education of the deaf began. During the nineteenth century, parents started to band together to help one another find answers. Under the leadership of determined members, they began to form parent associations. Among the first was the Boston Parents' Education Association for Deaf Children, founded in 1894 (Best, 1943, p. 362). Others followed, along with increasing numbers of articles on the advantages of early instruction, tips for parents, methods advocacies, and more (Fellendorf, 1977). Today parent associations and parent programs are a common resource in educational facilities for deaf children as well as at regional, national, and international levels; and parent involvement in educational decision-making has received unprecedented federal support through PL 94-142, the Education of All Handicapped Children Act (U.S., Congress, 1975), to be discussed in chapter 5. However, the experiences of professional workers involved in parent guidance (e.g., Bennett, 1955; Harris, 1960), taken in conjunction with the findings of exceptional amounts of emotional disturbance among deaf pupils (Schlesinger and Meadow, 1972), suggest that parent education programs can go only so far in reducing the traumatic effects of a hearing parent's confrontation with child-deafness. Bennett (1955) observes that emotional disturbance can persist in some parents to an incapacitating degree and can affect every area of parent-child relations, including educational decisionmaking. Herein lies a serious potential danger of PL 94-142: although granted the authority, so few parents are ready either emotionally or informationally for objective educational decision-making at the time when first decisions must be made. Parent disturbances are expressed in many ways. When they are manifested as rejection of the child, the school is often forced to assume a parent role out of sheer concern for the rejected child. If a significant other figure enters the child's life, whether in the school or elsewhere, and provides the love, recognition, and motivation the child needs to forge ahead, then not too much harm has been done. The parents have simply lost a child. But if no other significant figure appears, the child himself may well be lost, and go through life forever seeking from others the care and attention that should have come from the parents. Where parent disturbance shows itself in overcontrol, one pattern is a need to wipe out the " s t i g m a " of deafness as rapidly as possible by pressur-

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ing the child to quickly acquire the accouterments of "normalcy," particularly in terms of speech. Often, parents as well as professional workers are completely oblivious to the fact that there are limits of tolerance to input. When these limits are exceeded, the results show up in various pathological ways. One of the most common can be found under the umbrella "learning disability," which hides not only "teaching disability" but also many deaf children who are seeking escape from the disruptive effects of being pushed beyond their limits. In his masterful treatment of the behavioral aspects of human communication, Ruesch observes (in regard to nondeaf children) that the rather characteristic disturbances resulting from excessive pressures include rigidity in perception and action at the expense of flexibility, and adherence to rules and principles of behavior are apt to occur when ' 'parents become impatient with the child's nonverbal forms of communication. . . . Premature verbalization and apparent skill with numbers take the place of much-needed experience in the process of interaction" (1957, p. 96). These comments have remarkable relevance to the situation in which many young deaf children find themselves. Another form of child control is seen in parents whose need is to dramatize themselves as the major figures in the confrontation with deafness, as martyrs, protectors of a helpless child. In such instances, the parent takes on a dominating role that far exceeds the limits of practical necessity, robbing the child of identity, limiting the exercise of independent action to a minimum, retarding development, and otherwise laying the foundation for an infantile and ineffective adult. There are many other variations of unhealthy child management by parents who cannot accept the reality of deafness. Whatever the variation, it is determined by the psychological needs of the parent at the expense of the developmental needs of the child. But no matter how self-deceived parents may be regarding their feelings for the child, the child " k n o w s . " No amount of surface display of love and concern can fool the penetrating perceptions of childhood. Children know when they have been measured and found wanting. They register their protests and unhappiness in the only way open to them—in behavior—at which point they are labeled "maladjusted" or "emotionally disturbed." But what else can they be? They are, after all, simply reflecting the pathologies of their maladjusted environment. Fortunately, there are numbers of deaf children whose parents possess the stability and stamina to cope with the initial shock of diagnosis. After a reasonable period of mourning-for-loss, they buckle down to the job of becoming effective parents to a child who happens to be deaf and whose greatest need is for communicative interplay with the world around. The "curricul u m " for such parent-preparation is generally put together by the parents

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themselves f r o m a variety of sources that are available to t h e m — t h e literature and lectures on d e a f n e s s , child d e v e l o p m e n t , and on field resources and options; visits to facilities; discussions with experts in various disciplines and with other parents; m e m b e r s h i p in parent organizations; participation in adult deaf activities; and m o r e . From information so obtained, screened by sound c o m m o n sense, these parents draw out the special guides and techniques to provide their deaf child with the f o r m a t i v e and informational inputs normally supplied through hearing. Increasing numbers of hearing parents are turning to the nonverbal language of signs (Sternberg, 1981) to provide their deaf babies with the communicative equivalents e n j o y e d by hearing babies of the same age (Stoloff and Dennis, 1978). T o put the guides into practice is no easy task. O f t e n decision-making can tax the emotional control of even the most stable parents, as, for e x a m p l e , in weighing the advantages versus the dangers to a deaf child of such potentially hazardous but socially desirable activities as street play, bicycle riding, r o u g h h o u s e g a m e s with the neighborhood children, and many other kinds of independent social interaction. It takes special skills and self-control to caution a deaf child to " b e c a r e f u l " without frightening or discouraging him. Interestingly e n o u g h , m a n y of these " a d j u s t e d " parents have found their own lives greatly enriched through the circumstance of having a deaf child. Dale quotes one of them: " I t seems awful to say this, but I ' m sure m y husband and I have had a much m o r e interesting life since w e discovered Peter was deaf. W e ' v e met so many wonderful people, read m o r e than w e ever did, and s o m e h o w little things don't seem to worry us as they d i d " (1967, p. 28). I have heard m a n y similar c o m m e n t s . Such parents have learned to see the normal child behind the façade of deafness. The relationship between them and their deaf children is a joy to both. Deaf Parents Deaf parents of deaf children escape the disruptive potential that the discovery of deafness has for hearing parents. T h e soundless world into which their child is born is their world. They have been reared in its subculture, use its unique manual communications, have experienced its problems, and generally feel equipped to guide the child over many of the obstacles. Furthermore, they are familiar with habilitative measures and educational procedures through personal experience, and seldom challenge professional educational responsibility. Most feel comfortable with their deaf children. It is when a first hearing child is born to deaf parents that anxieties are apt to arise. Although most wish for hearing children (Rainer, Altshuler, and Kallman, 1963), when the wish is granted, doubts may arise. They wonder if they have the k n o w l e d g e and ability to share the child's hearing world. W h o will teach the child to talk? H o w will they function in the unfamiliar

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setting of a " h e a r i n g " school and hearing parent associations? Will their child's hearing friends look down upon his deaf parents? Will the child himself be ashamed of them? Such worries are obviated when a deaf child is born. For the deaf infant, there are a number of potential advantages in having deaf parents. For one, the infant is spared the impact of disturbance common to hearing parents of a first deaf child. For another, the "visual h u n g e r " with which babies are born is apt to be more readily and fully satisfied by visually oriented parents such as the deaf than by auditorially oriented hearing parents. As a result, the deaf baby of deaf parents is generally involved in stimulating parent-child gestural communication as early as the first months of life. Furthermore, to satisfy the baby's "mental h u n g e r , " the early gestural message forms are easily transposed into the structured manual communication forms used by deaf persons. These give the deaf child, while still in babyhood, a feel for the use of patterned language in interpersonal communication. Unlike deaf children of hearing parents, many deaf children of deaf parents are experienced communicators well before preschool age. By the time the deaf child enters school, interpersonal communication has become a way of life. However, early parent-child communication does not necessarily ensure healthy parent-child communication. It only ensures an early intake of parental influences. These may be for better or for worse, depending on the parents. A " f o r b e t t e r " picture comes with deaf parents who make sure that the child is provided with the input that fits developmental imperatives, emotional needs, and cultural adaptation. A " f o r w o r s e " picture comes with a scattering of deaf parents who lack the maturity, knowledge, and intuitions necessary for child-rearing. Examples are cited by Schlesinger and Meadow: W e have met immature deaf parents with their children w h o were unable to see their infant as a feeling baby. Their infants remained nameless for prolonged periods of time, they were " m a s c o t e d " and treated like dolls or objects. S o m e immature deaf parents have felt s o incompetent ia the task of child-rearing that their infants were cared for by maternal grandparents. ( 1 9 7 2 . 2 6 - 2 7 )

With mature deaf parents as well, hearing grandmothers are frequently called upon for help especially with a first child. Initially, grandmothers serve as attentive ears for baby sounds and cries, and to lend a hand with household chores. But as time goes by, many become closely involved in child-rearing and decision-making. They, too, were the parents of deaf babies and have a wealth of experience to share with these " b a b i e s , " now parents themselves. Although it is usually overlooked, the importance of the grandparent role in the rearing of deaf children was acknowledged by a special workshop for grandparents conducted by the Atlanta Speech School

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(Rhoades, 1975). In addition to grandparents, another frequently overlooked group is composed of oral deaf parents of deaf infants. Special programs for such parents are conducted by the Lexington School for the Deaf (Held, 1975). Research summarized in later chapters indicates significant advantages to a deaf child in having deaf parents. However, it would be interesting to know how many of these children owe their developmental foundations to hearing grandmothers or other hearing mediators. Unfortunately, such data were not included in the studies. Although much remains to be learned about the actual child-rearing practices of deaf parents, common sense would lead to the conclusion that any advantages a deaf child derives from parental influences depend on the effectiveness of the parents as people rather than on their audiograms.

The Environment of Labels and Stereotypes An environment of labels, terminology, and stereotypes awaits a deaf child from the moment of birth. Apart from their obvious connotations, more subtle and generally unrecognized influences are involved in each of the many labels that might be attached to a particular child. For example, Wilson, Ross, and Calvert conducted an interesting study to determine which of eleven terms was preferred by a group of 6 9 hearing college students to describe individuals having some degree of hearing loss. The terms judged were: deaf, deaf-mute, deaf and dumb, hearing impaired, hard of hearing, hearing loss, partially hearing, partial hearing loss, limited hearing, hearing handicapped, and partially deaf. The preferred choice was "hearing impaired." It "evoked fewer negative semantic associations than any of the other common terms and phrases used to denote a hearing defic i e n c y " ( 1 9 7 4 , p. 413). Although the investigators point out the value of the generic use of the term "hearing impaired," they also hypothesize that the more favorable image evoked by this term as compared with " d e a f " would produce higher scholastic expectations, hence better achievement, from children labeled "hearing impaired" than from the same children if they were labeled " d e a f . " Such is the subtle power of labels to influence outcomes. Similarly with definitions: every definition of " d e a f " evokes a different image of a deaf person in the user's mind; every term used to designate " d e a f " creates a different feeling for what it implies. When there are as many different personifications of " d e a f " as there are interpretations, there are bound to be just as many different opinions about management. In consequence, a deaf child runs a continuing risk of being forced into a setting that fits the label but not the child.

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There is also a tendency to change a deaf child's label in recognition of outstanding achievement, a kind of promotion from " d e a f " to "hard of hearing" or "hearing impaired." However, scholastic success does not alter the basic physiological picture of prelinguistic deafness nor of its fundamental implications. In my opinion, an exceptional child who happens to be deaf should be rewarded with recognition as an outstanding deaf child rather than with a change of label. All that label-change does is to create more confusion than now exists in what Wilson and associates (1974) call the "semantics of d e a f n e s s . " The historic burden the deaf have borne of being cast as labels and stereotypes rather than as people is not the least of the handicaps of deafness. As Schreiber remarked, "It is a tribute to the deaf that they survive at all under such conditions" (1969). It may be that to a certain extent deafness protects.

References Becker, S. 1976. Initial concern and action in the detection and diagnosis of a hearing impairment in the child. Volta Review, 78: 105-15. Bennett, D. N. 1955. Parents as teachers of the preschool deaf child. Journal of Exceptional Children, 22: 101-3, 122. Best, H. 1943. Deafness and the Deaf in the United States. New York: Macmillan Co.. Chapanis, A. 1971. Prelude to 2001: Exploration in human communication. American Psychologist, 26: 949-61. Dale, D. M. C. 1967. Deaf Children at Home and in School. London: University of London Press. Dennis, W. 1960. Causes of retardation among institutional children. Journal of Genetic Psychology, 96: 47-59. Fellendorf, G. W., ed. 1977. Bibliography on Deafness. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Fellendorf, G. W., and Harrow, I. 1970. Parent counseling 1961-1968. Volta Review, 72: 51-58. Gesell, A., and Amatruda, C. S. 1947. Developmental Diagnosis. 2nd ed. New York: Paul B. Hoeber. Gesell A., and llg, F. L. 1943. Infant and Child in the Culture of Today. New York: Harper & Brothers. Harris, N. 1960. A pilot study of parental attitudes. Volta Review, 62: 355-61. Held, M. 1975. Oral deaf parents communicate with their deaf infants. Volta Review, 77: 309- 10. McAree, R. 1970. What price parenthood? Volta Review, 72: 431-37. Montagu, A. 1957. Man: His First Two Million Years. New York: World Publishing Co. Murphy, A. T., ed. 1979. The families of hearing-impaired children. Volta Review, 81: 265-384.

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Panel on Parent Education and Combating Misinformation. 1974. Proceedings of the Forty-Sixth Meeting of the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf, Inc., Tucson, Arizona: Arizona School for the Deaf and the Blind. Pp. 8 - 1 8 . Rainer, J. D., Altshuler, K. Z., and Kallmann, F. J., eds. 1963. Family and Mental Health Problems in a Deaf Population. New York: New York State Psychiatric Institute. Rhoades, E. A. 1975. A grandparents' workshop. Volta Review, 11: 557-60. Ruesch, J. 1957. Disturbed Communication. New York: W. W. Norton & Co. Schlesinger, H. S., and Meadow, K. P. 1972. Sound and Sign. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schreiber, F. 1969. The deaf adult's point of view. Lecture presented at the Teacher Institute, Maryland School for the Deaf, October 1969. Spitz, R. 1945. Hospitalism: An inquiry into the genesis of psychiatric conditions in early childhood. Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 1: 53-74. Spradley, T. S., and Spradley, J. S. 1978. Deaf Like Me. New York: Random House. Sternberg, M. L. 1981. American Sign Language: A Comprehensive Dictionary. New York: Harper & Row. Stoloff, L., and Dennis, Z. G. 1978. Matthew. American Annals of the Deaf, 123: 442-47. U.S., Congress. 1975. Education of All Handicapped Children Act of 1975. Public Law 94-142. November 27, 1975. Wilson, G. B., Ross, M., and Calvert, D. R. 1974. An experimental study of the semantics of deafness. Volta Review, 76: 408-15.

4 The Language Environment The bond between an individual and society is supplied by language. Whatmough, Language: A Modern Synthesis

COMMUNICATIVE RESTRAINTS of the kinds imposed by prelinguistic deafness would be expected to narrow a language environment and reduce the number of language forms used by its occupants. Such, however, is not the case with the deaf. In fact, considerably more "languages" are found among the deaf than among their hearing peers. Represented in the deaf language environment are what Charlton Laird (1953) calls the "four vocabularies" of literate peoples—the speaking, writing, reading, and recognition vocabularies. In addition, there are language forms special to the deaf, such as lipreading, fingerspelling, the American Sign Language, and various systems of manually coded English. One might suppose that with all these language forms at their disposal, the deaf would have easy communicative access to society. How they actually fare is the subject of this chapter. Discussion focuses on selected features of the principal " l a n g u a g e s " in the deaf environment and on their mastery. Verbal Language Forms Linguistic Aspects A few introductory comments on verbal language provide a context for the unusual situation facing deaf persons in mastering this language form. In order for the communicative function of any language to be fulfilled, the members of a given community must share a common symbol system expressed and received in mutually used and understood patterns. It may come as a surprise to learn that this was not always the case with the English language in established societies. Bowen relates that the first English gram-

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mars were written out of the despair of scholars of the eighteenth century with the chaotic state of the language: "there was no agreement on spelling, style, or usage . . . and no authority one could appeal to in order to resolve questions of correctness" (1970, p. 36). He further remarks that these early grammars were designed primarily to prevent the deterioration of the English language by writers of the period. The grammars may well have salvaged the English language, but an even more momentous contribution was to spark the scientific study of verbal language. The term " l i n g u i s t i c s , " by which this branch of study is known, was first used in the mid-nineteenth century, and until the early half of the twentieth century the main focus was on written language. Then, under the influence of Sapir (1921; Mandelbaum, 1956) and Bloomfield (1933), the focus shifted to the spoken form. As explained by Sapir, " t h e actual history of man and a wealth of anthropological evidence indicate with overwhelming certainty that phonetic language takes precedence over all other kinds of communicative s y m b o l i s m " (Mandelbaum, 1956, p. 2). An important outcome of the shift to the spoken tongue was to expose the astonishing ambiguities of even ordinary conversation, as expressed in the saying: "I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but I am not sure you realize that what you thought you heard is not what I m e a n t . " The linguistic unknowns underlying that doggerel intensified the search into the mysteries of verbal language acquisition and of the rules governing its grammar and use. Of the ensuing theory explosion, Johnson-Laird wryly remarks, " T h e literature continues to grow faster than k n o w l e d g e " (1974, p. 135). Dettering (1970) groups language-acquisition theories into two main "bia s e s " : the rationalistic, which emphasizes an innate ability for acquiring verbal language while minimizing the influences of environment: and the empirical, which views verbal language in terms of both speech and grammatical construction as being acquired mainly through input from the cultural milieu and as being as much a product of environmental determinism as is any other acquired human behavior. The theory that has had the greatest recent impact on linguistic thinking is a type of generative grammar termed transformational, in particular the type developed by Noam Chomsky (1957, 1965, 1968). Since aspects of the theory have entered the field of the deaf through research and practice, a short discussion is in order. Fuller references to psycholinguistic theory formulations can be found in Lyons (1970) and in the comprehensive reviews of Fillenbaum (1971) and Johnson-Laird (1974) and in current linguistic literature. Chomskyan transformational-generative grammar is affiliated with the rationalistic school in accordance with its postulate that children are born with

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an "innate idea" of the rules of grammar, and that this innate faculty accounts for the extraordinary rapidity with which very young children are able to master complex syntactic structures. The postulate represents a radical departure from long-held views of language acquisition as a product of outside influences imposed on the child by the linguistic environment through imitation, conditioning, or reinforcement. In the Chomskyan view, the acquisition of language is essentially a child-created phenomenon in which the child's deep innate cognitive structures transform perceptions into kernel sentences, consisting, it may be, of only one word. In the process of maturation, these are transformed into infantile grammatic structures, which in turn and with striking rapidity are transformed into the structures of the mother tongue. Involved in the process are various controlling factors, both within children, such as memory, and outside them, such as the immediate linguistic environment represented by parental speech against which children test their own emerging speech. In the course of expanding their language competencies, children unknowingly acquire for themselves the rules governing the grammar of the language. It is in this sense that children are considered language creators. A major focus of Chomsky's work has been to search out and formalize the system of rules that constitute grammar. Included in the system are: (a) the rules of syntax, which govern the order and relationship of words in well-formed sentences; (b) the rules of phonology, which specify the phonetic character of the sentence generated by the syntactic rules; and (c) the semantic rules, which interpret the meaning of a sentence. The syntactic rules generate what Chomsky calls the deep structure of a sentence; the phonological rules, the surface structure in the form of actual sentences produced by the language-user; and the semantic rules of interpretation assign the meaning as derived from the deep structure. Chomsky's greatest contribution is considered the inclusion of a transformational component into linguistic modeling. Through a series of steps, procedures, and rules too complex to be cited here, the transformational component converts the deep abstract structure of a sentence into its linguistic surface structure, and makes it theoretically possible to extend and expand the structural patterns of well-formed sentences to account for the infinite variations produced by language-users. Chomsky designates as competence the idealized, perfect grammatical use of a language, as distinguished from performance, which refers to the actual productions of the language-user. One of the tasks of generative linguists in describing the language of a particular speech community is to examine the consistency between competence and performance. The remarkable impact of Chomskyan theory not only on linguistic science but also on language instruction in the schools (Markwardt and

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Richey, 1970) does not imply universal acceptance. Certain linguists maintain with Bierwisch (1969) that a sentence derives its meaning as much or more from the other sentences with which it is associated in a frame of discourse as from its syntactic structure. Others hold that "competence" in the use of language is as much determined by the social situation in which it is used as by the ability to produce syntactically well-formed sentences (Bernstein, 1971). Possibly the most controversial difference exists between proponents of the Chomskyan belief in an innate syntactic faculty and those who maintain that whatever innate predispositions there may be are strongly influenced by environmental variables in language acquisition, particularly by parent-child dialogue (Campbell and Wales, 1970). The old nature-nurture controversy comes to mind, albeit with a different focus. Simplistically summarized, the crucial question in Chomskyan-inspired deliberations seems to be: How are the raw data of mind and thought transposed into their linguistic equivalents? That the process is rooted in biological engineering is not surprising. In the service of survival, innate communicative engineering characterizes all living species, each with its own species-specific "language" for effecting adaptive organism-environment interplay, as for example the chemical "language" of the amoeba, the dance "language" of the honeybee (Von Frisch and Lindauer, 1965), the voice of the dolphin (Lilly, 1969), and the verbal language of Homo sapiens. In the case of the latter species, the need to cognitively internalize vast amounts of complex adaptive information, for lack of instinct programming, makes it essential that the young develop information input and exchange mechanisms as rapidly as possible to keep up with the adaptive demands of the cultural milieu. Again, biological engineering meets the need by activating what Marshall (1970) refers to as an early "critical period" in brain development, during which the brain is especially " t u n e d " to language acquisition. Hence the rapidity with which young children are able to acquire mastery of the mother tongue as well as of other languages. Problems arise not in accepting these obvious facts, but in digging beneath the surface to get at the processing details. Lenneberg's (1967) efforts to track down the biological foundations of language have yielded abundant data, but "scholars are still unable to propose a biological theory of language—a formal model of a brain mechanism consistent with the physiology described by Lenneberg and with . . . psychological data" (Marshall, 1970, p. 241). On the linguistic side, scholars are still theorizing about the structural properties that distinguish human language from all other animal languages, namely its syntax, phonology, and semantics; still deliberating on a human being's ability to produce and understand an infinite variety of sentences never before heard; still theorizing on the rapid acquisition of verbal lan-

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guage by the human young; and still searching for universals in the world's languages. Overriding the unknowns and debates of linguistic inquiry is the driving concept that the structure of a language reflects the multiple functions of that language; that an understanding of the ways in which the words and sentences of a language relate to one another underlies an understanding of the ways in which words and sentences relate to reality. On one point at least there is complete agreement, namely, that verbal language development is initiated through hearing. The grammar of a language flows into the ears of hearing children from babyhood onward throughout the whole of a waking day, in all its syntactic complexities, phonetic variations, semantic multiples and parallels, and intonational subtleties, and this comes about not only through the parent-child dialogue so favored by researchers, but through all the conversations that nondeaf children hear and overhear in their linguistic milieu. Little pitchers have big ears, the saying goes, and thanks to such copious, constant auditory input, by the time hearing children are ready for school, their common coin of communicative exchange includes verb forms, infinitives, relative pronouns, question formulations, passives and actives, conjunctions and prepositions, negatives, colloquialisms, and more. Further, not only are these children able to produce and understand sentences they have never before heard, they can also use and understand the semantics of intonation, pitch, stress, and all the other musical elements of a communicating voice. The biological foundations are there; hearing activates their operation; environment provides the input. Verbal Language and the Deaf: Root Problems

When congenitally deaf children begin to learn verbal language, they find a ready-made body of voiceless, unknown words waiting to be mastered which they have never heard and never will hear in their natural-sounding form and flow. A hearing child acquires verbal language through audition, but a deaf child must memorize it piece by piece, mainly through visual input. And whereas a hearing child creates his language, deaf children find it imposed on them from the outside. They have played no part in its making, either semantically or syntactically. Mastery rests mainly on rote memory. Memorizing Words and Meanings. The first verbal discoveries that prelinguistically deaf beginning learners make are that things have names, that activities have names, that they themselves have a name. They learn that these " n a m e s " are " w o r d s " and that words have meaning. They are shown how words look on the blackboard or spelled on the fingers. They learn that if they watch very closely, they can see how a particular word looks on the

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lips of a speaker, and how it differs in appearance from other words. Of course they cannot understand any words until they are taught the meanings. They must therefore memorize the various visible appearances and meanings of every word they add to their verbal vocabulary. To help them in the task, illustrative pictures are used and specific word meanings are drilled and drilled until they are fixed in memory. But pictures are not the real thing; and many very young children, hearing as well as deaf, do not realize that the picture of an airplane, for example, stands for the actual plane as it soars through the sky. The connection between the picture and the object for which it stands must be made clear to them. If it is not, then the picture is the "airplane" and the thing in the sky has another name, as yet unknown. In programs in which teaching is conducted through speech, the children are spoken to constantly so they will see how whole thoughts and connected language as well as single words look on the lips. And before very long, children in these programs begin the most exacting task of all, and that is to use voice, breath, and articulatory organs in oral expression. This too they must fix in memory for every word they learn to say. As time goes on, deaf children are taught that things have qualities as well as names. Things can be big, small, round, red, pretty, and so forth. It goes without saying that the children were aware of such differences in appearance all along; they simply lacked the words to cloak the observations. But as the word-meanings are given, linguistic perplexities begin to arise. From the children's point of view, if one can see a ball, or a pencil, or a boat, why not a big, or a small, or a red? And if blue distinguishes one dress from another, why not a "dress blue" instead of a "blue dress"? The words mean the same; what difference should word order make? Linguistic perplexities multiply as word-meanings must be learned that cannot be illustrated by pictures, such as " t h e , " " a , " " b u t , " and " i f , " to say nothing of the semantic complications that arise from multiple word meanings, and the differences in meaning of such expressions as "to look a t , " "to look like," "to look o u t , " "to look f o r , " "to look out f o r , " and eventually from having to memorize the word order that gives meaning to sentences. There are not enough hours in a school day to touch all linguistic bases when the meaning of a language must be learned bit by bit through vision, drill, and memory. To learn verbal expression in this slow, piece-by-piece way is not only linguistically unnatural, it is psychologically incompatible with a small child's developmental imperatives and an older pupil's informational needs. A deaf child's chief defense against serious communicative deprivation is a master teacher who, to paraphrase Simmons (1968), knows what the pupil needs to know and why, before deciding on how best to teach it. But the

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problem here lies in the serious shortage o f teachers who are qualified and adequately trained to teach deaf children (Connor, 1971; Council on Education o f the D e a f , 1974; Delgado, 1973). W h e n the delicate yet crucial matter o f teaching communication to a deaf beginning pupil is left to the inexperienced and poorly trained, the " w h a t " and the " w h y " of teaching customarily focuses on words and vocabulary building; the " h o w " on the method o f instruction espoused by the school. Progress is measured in terms o f number o f words mastered, and these generally bear a closer relationship to mode o f communication than to the child's experiences and expressive needs. For example, words traditionally chosen for beginning lipreading are ones that are readily seen on the l i p s — fish, b o w , airplane; while those chosen for speech are ones that present the least difficulties in articulation. Then there are other words for reading plus words coming through the hearing aid, to say nothing of fingerspelled words and words taught in various sign systems. T h e child sees unrelated words coming at him from all kinds o f places: from the lips, the blackboard, the hearing aid, from b o o k s , and from the fingers, from everywhere seemingly but from the world o f his interests and experiences. But unless the words a deaf child is taught relate to life, that child is being taught a dead language. In such vocabulary-oriented teaching, mental hungers are fed with an assortment o f memorized word meanings instead o f with the semantics of experiences and concepts; and communicative drive withers under drill, repetition, and correction. T o keep verbal language alive for small deaf children and the spirit o f inquiry flourishing is a glowing competence of the true master teacher. Unless this is done, there is grave danger that the child's mental set will take on the same rigidities as practiced in teaching. In this connection, Mildred Groht ( 1 9 5 8 ) , the renowned proponent o f natural language for deaf children, used to tell o f a teacher in a " d e e p - s o u t h " school who was conscientiously intent on drilling the day's vocabulary when a sudden snowstorm appeared. T h e teacher religiously kept to the day's schedule. When the visiting supervisor asked why the teacher did not take advantage o f this unique opportunity to tell about " s n o w , " the teacher explained that the word was not on the day's vocabulary list. Another incident that I witnessed illustrates instructional rigidities reflected in pupil behavior. This young deaf child dug in his heels and refused to enter a particular room for his lipreading lesson on the ground that it was not his regular " l i p r e a d i n g " room. It was his speech-teaching room. Where the teaching of verbal language to deaf children lacks spark, relevance, and

flexibility,

so eventually will the ones being taught. T h e

whole point o f learning to communicate is lost. T h e pupils have simply learned to memorize; they have not "learned to l e a r n " nor learned to think. Numerous highly respected professional persons outside the field o f the

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deaf entertain the idea that children who cannot hear the mother tongue can learn by reading. The fact of the matter is that reading places greater demands on linguistic competence than does talking; and when average deaf pupils open a book based on the interests of their particular age group, they see not a story but a conglomeration of unknown words, confusing idioms, and unfamiliar constructions. To hold on to the thread of a narrative while trying to decode the elements is enough to discourage all but the stoutest of hearts, the sharpest of minds, and the most persistent of spirits. Where these qualities are lacking, less hardy spirits handle the matter by spinning a narrative out of selected words and familiar phrases. Sometimes they hit the mark; often they do not, as illustrated by the following incident that occurred in a school for the deaf. The personnel director of a large business concern employing deaf persons became greatly alarmed at the number of personal data forms in which the answer " y e s " had been given by the deaf job applicants from this particular school to the questions "Have you ever been in a mental hospital?" and "Have you ever had fits?" She hurriedly phoned the school principal for explanation, and was promptly reassured. None of the applicants had ever been committed to a mental hospital. None had ever had fits. The problem lay in their reading of the language of the application form. Regarding the first question, the words "mental" and "hospital" had never been taught as the unit expression "mental hospital" but simply as isolated words. Consequently the deaf applicants were unfamiliar with the expression. But they were completely familiar with the word "hospital." All had at one time or another been to the school hospital or had visited friends in other hospitals. "Hospital" was part of their experience, and the word stood out like an old friend. Accordingly, they geared their response to this familiar word, and in so doing obligingly answered " Y e s " to the question "Have you ever been in a mental hospital?" As to "Have you ever had fits?" all the young applicants had just completed a course in dressmaking. Great stress had been placed on the need for accuracy in the cut and fit of the garments they had made. What could be more reasonable than to assume the word " f i t s " in the question had the same meaning as in dressmaking? So here too the answer yes seemed entirely suitable. As George Miller remarks, "Words signify only what we have learned they signify" (1951, p. 5; italics added). This anecdote provides a small sample of the difficulties of memorizing the semantics of a language word by word, without benefit of hearing. Complex though the problems are, there is a still greater one, and that is memorizing the syntax of the language and learning the contributions of syntax to meaning. Memorizing Syntax. Teachers struggling to teach verbal language to con-

Noun

Verb transitive

Pronoun

Verb intransitive V

Adjective

Verb passive

Adverb

Verb progressive

Verb

Indicative mood

\T

Pl-eposition Conjunction

Subjunctive mood

" IZ3CZ

Potential mood

Interjection |

Imperative mood

Proper noun

Infinitive mood

Coninon noun

V

Participle

clL

Participle as a noun .

Relative pronoun

\

Noun and pronoun in the

11

nominative case

T

Possessive case — Objective case

fl—

Present tense Past tense Future tense Present perfect tense

Independent case Past perfect tense Masculine gender

T Future perfect tenseN

Feminine gender Verb singular Common gender

.

First person

_

Second person

.

Verb plural Verb in first person Verb in second person Third person Singular number

Plural nunber

J

JLU

Verb in third person ' Adjective and adverb in comparative degree Adjective and adverb in superlative degree

Figure 4.1. A system of symbols used in the study of grammar. From Nelson (1949).

Tn

Conjunction (co-ordinate) Conjunction (subordinate)

J«|

H

5

Relative pronoun Nominative Possessive

j"|

Objective

J^ ^ Special Symbols N

Noun or name word Auxiliary verb

-J- or —

Progressive form of verb

V^

Present tense \

Past tense

\J /

Future tense

\f

Object of participle or infinitive

. .

0

Noun or pronoun

N C

Adjective

/\Q

Nominative independent

^g]

Nominative absolute

(S)

Indirect object

—

0

Ellipsis Interjection

|

Hie Essentials Subject

S

Verb (general symbol)

V

Intransitive

V*

Transitive, active . . . .

\r

Transitive, passive

. . .

Object

"V 0

Complement (adjective)

. . .

AC

Complement (noun and pronoun)

NC

Modifying Forms Indicated by Numbers' Noun or pronoun in apposition

I

Possessive

2

Adjective and article

3

Prepositional phrase

4

Adverb and adverbial phrase

5

Infinitive

6

Participle

7

Figure 4.2. Another system of symbols used in the study of grammar. From Nelson (1949).

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PRELINGUISTIC

DEAFNESS

genitally deaf pupils are hard pressed to see among them any evidence of the Chomskyan concept of an "innate idea" of syntactic structures. Equal difficulty is experienced in accepting Lenneberg's supportive statement for the innate idea theory, that although "congenital deafness has a devastating effect on the vocal facilitation for speech, yet presentation of written material enables the child to acquire language through a graphic medium without undue difficulties" (1964, p. 67; italics added). What Lenneberg's statement does illustrate is the enormous difficulty even exceptional persons have in conceiving the linguistic void created by congenital deafness, and the learning problems of children who do not know there are such things as words, who have never experienced such things as sentences, and have yet to encounter such things as rules of grammar. The instructional way has not yet been found for arousing an innate idea of syntactic structures in the minds of children who have never heard the verbal tongue. This has not been for lack of trying. The excellent reviews by Nelson (1949) and Schmitt (1966) summarize over 30 instructional approaches and philosophies that have been used with deaf pupils in this country since the early nineteenth century. Fellendorf's bibliography (1977) of articles from The Volta Review and the American Annals of the Deaf gives a vivid picture of the instructional strategies used by ingenious teachers in their determination that their deaf pupils master verbal language. A major difficulty in all approaches is the scarcity of pictorial aids for illustrating syntactic relationships and fixing them in the minds of the pupils. Schmitt expresses it well when he says, "Language development for the deaf might be said to entail building the English language into the child" (1966, p. 86). The building-in process is based on memorizing. With syntax as with vocabulary, mastery rests on memory. To bolster memory, the earlier educators devised visible aids in the form of complicated symbol notations for the parts of speech, and elaborate sentence diagrams to indicate syntactic relations. Several are depicted in figures 4.1 and 4.2. Certain of these aids to memory appear to present a greater tax on memory than would syntax itself. Most have gradually fallen into disuse. The outstanding exception is the Fitzgerald Key (1926), which is a sentence pattern guide to help deaf children form and correct their own sentences. The key still enjoys considerable use in schools for the deaf (Hudson, 1979).' Later devised but less generally used syntax- and vocabulary-teaching strategies are competently summarized by Schmitt (1966). Other types of language-support strategies are more recent additions to the educational scene. These include such approaches as educational media, mainstreaming, total communication, and early fitting of hearing aids. A common underlying goal of all of these is improved language learning. Finally, from the ranks of Chomskyan linguists comes a recommendation by

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McNeill (1966), proposing the use of "expansion-like" instruction in which a young deaf child's beginning exposure to verbal language would be in the form of "child s p e e c h , " in accordance with the baby-talk patterns that characterize the beginning speech of hearing children, and would then " e x p a n d " from that point with the introduction of increasingly advanced structures. Determining whether these moves will result in a more productive teachinglearning environment for deaf pupils will require prolonged and carefully controlled longitudinal study. As matters stand, an examination of the verbal language habits of the deaf as obtained from written samples over the decades shows no historic change despite the variety of instructional methods tried. For example, the most important "errors of construction" found by a teacher of the deaf in 1897 " f r o m a perusal of examination p a p e r s " were: M i s u s e of the v e r b , M i s u s e of the adjective and a d v e r b , M i s u s e of the relative clause, C o n f u s i o n of direct and indirect q u o t a t i o n s , C a r e l e s s use of p r o n o u n s , especially in lack of a g r e e m e n t with a n t e c e d e n t , M i s u s e or omission of the articles, Transposition of a d j e c t i v e and n o u n , Transposition of letters in familiar w o r d s . (J. L. S m i t h , 1897, p. 205)

The errors noted by Smith bear striking resemblance to the defects reported in recent times. For example, Quigley, Power, and Steinkamp (1977) found that particularly difficult structures for the deaf subjects of their research include: the verb system, the use of pronouns, infinitives, and gerunds; and the use of relative pronouns, phrases, and clauses. How such impaired linguistic structures appear in sentence form is illustrated by the following examples taken from a list recorded by Fusfeld (1958) and written by applicants for admission to Gallaudet College: 1) 2) 3) 4)

I began to love it as to be my favorite sport n o w . T o his d i s a p p o i n t e d , his w i f e disgusted of what he m a d e . He always patiented with his w i f e b e c a u s e she a l w a y s boss over h i m . M a n y deaf people play or act nicelessly to the people if they get m a d with them. 5) I was happy to kiss my parents b e c a u s e they letted m e playing foot ball. (pp. 261-62)

The following example shows how the impaired structures read in narrative form, as excerpted from Fusfeld (1955): S o m e people must take with m a n y deaf people. T h e y like to help them b e c a m e they were smart. T h e y must to kind to t h e m . M a y b e m a n y deaf p e o p l e will like

80

PRE LINGUISTIC DEAFNESS them became a freind. Yes, they were sorry for them because they can't heard and they don't understand what the people said. (p. 2)

The language used here is fairly good " d e a f " language, as deaf language goes. Readers can judge for themselves by comparing it with the following direct transposition from the sign language of an intelligent but uneducated deaf adult: Improve cold snow tonight. North coming cold now maybe. Many people passing here fast shot cars 70 hour. Time now 12:46 A . M . Sleep now—Sunday, tomorrow plus now. (Personal communication)

Other examples of written productions, from superb to jargon, are given in the course of later discussion to illustrate, among other things, the exceptional range of linguistic fluency in the deaf population. A composite description of the freely written language of deaf research subjects can be abstracted from various authoritative sources (Blanton, 1968; Heider and Heider, 1940a,b; Kates, 1972; Myklebust, 1960; Quigley, Power, and Steinkamp, 1977; Simmons, 1962). "Deaf language" has a strong " r u b b e r - s t a m p " quality, rigid in style and loaded with stereotypic repetitions suggesting memorized units rather than generative productions. The simple, short sentences resemble the patterns of much younger hearing children, and the narrowed vocabulary (Cooper and Rosenstein, 1966) is characterized by a large proportion of everyday nouns and verbs at the expense of many other parts of speech. Among the common errors are omission of essential words, use of wrong words, addition of excessive words, and incorrect word order. The Kates study (1972) gives additional information obtained from a comparative analysis of the written productions of subjects exposed to three different instructional communicative environments: oral, combined oral-manual, and fingerspelling, while the Blanton research (1968) mentions a singular and extremely provocative aspect of "deaf l a n g u a g e " — t h e deficiency in affective language and evaluational responses. A more recent research move has been to probe beneath the descriptive findings obtained from freely written language samples, into syntactic patterns as obtained through the more controllable cloze procedure. Leaders in the move are Russell, Quigley, and Power (1976), who, with their associates, addressed such issues as the order of difficulty of syntactic structures for deaf children, the establishment of syntactic rules, developmental stages of syntactic rules, acquisition of distinct syntactic structures, and syntactic structures in reading materials. One of the most productive outcomes of this 6-year research is the Test of Syntactical Abilities (TSA), designed to serve as a diagnostic and assessment instrument and as a guide for teachers in programming syntactic instruction.

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Questions arise concerning the relationship between reading ability and the syntactic deficiencies of the deaf. Quigley, Power, and Steinkamp (1977) express the opinion that "the gap between the deaf subjects' knowledge of specific syntactic structures and the appearance of those structures in the widely used Reading for Meaning series . . . was so great for almost every structure, even for the 18-year-old subjects, that we feel justified in concluding that most deaf students cannot read the books that they are supposed to be reading and from which they are supposed to be learning" (p. 81). This opinion is supported by national achievement test data for hearingimpaired students collected since 1968 by the Office of Demographic Studies of Gallaudet College. Reporting on the 1974 reading achievement test findings, Trybus and Karchmer (1977) state that the median reading score for students ages 20 or above "corresponds to a grade equivalent of about 4.5. In other words, half the students at age 20 (or any younger age) read at less than a mid-fourth grade level, that is, below or barely at a newspaper literacy level," and that "at best, only 10% of hearing-impaired 18-year olds nationally can read at or above an 8th grade level" (1977, p. 64). There are some in lay and professional circles who counter with the observation that similarly low reading levels are not uncommon among hearing students as well. They overlook the fact that the low-reading hearing pupil has abundant auditorially acquired language which is denied the deaf. The hearing pupil has a reading disability; the deaf pupil, a language disability. These are two very different things. Traditionally under fire for this sorry state are the communicative methods used in instructing deaf pupils. Advocates of instruction through speech hold that the grammar of the American Sign Language interferes with the learning of English grammar, while advocates of manual methods of instruction contend that the slowness and difficulties of teaching deaf pupils mainly through spoken language retard the whole learning process. Also subject to blame are the rigidities of the subject-verb-object pattern in teaching word order to deaf pupils. Here, the usual focus is on fitting expressive language into a fixed mold; sentences are drilled in isolation without showing how they relate to one another in a frame of discourse, and alternate sentence forms and transformations are generally left for " l a t e r . " Wilbur (1977) in particular believes that this approach contributes heavily to the syntactic problems of the deaf. To sum up, the semantic/syntactic deficiencies of the deaf have a long history and do not yield to usual instructional strategies. It may be that by the time deaf children are exposed to formal language instruction, they are past Marshall's "critical period" in which the brain is especially " t u n e d " to language acquisition. If this be so, then current moves for auditorially amplified and/or manual language-input beginning in babyhood, before this critical period is past, warrant special attention.

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Mastering Verbal Methods of Interpersonal Communication

Research shows no lack of mental or cognitive abilities on the part of the deaf which might account for their deficiencies in reading and writing. This being so, we turn to the verbal forms used by deaf persons in interpersonal communication: spoken language, lipreading, and fingerspelling. Spoken Language. Of all the language forms used by man, spoken language is the commonest and most useful coin of communicative exchange. It requires the smallest vocabulary for everyday use (Laird, 1953), yet for all its small size goes the farthest not only in interpersonal exchange but, perhaps more importantly, in providing people with impressions of one another as human beings, and with feelings about one another. Spoken language creates personal awareness. Spoken language is as remarkable in its production as in its use. It is created by an exquisite coordination of the movements of various respiratory and articulatory muscles, ably and succinctly described by Eisenberg (1976). The lungs supply the energy source for speech in the form of a column of expired air; the vocal cords at the larynx convert the column into a series of puffs or bursts whose energy registers as sound; and sound, in turn, is "shaped" into speech by the resonating cavities of the upper respiratory tract, and patterned in accordance with the particular adjustments and positions of the articulatory organs. The role of hearing in this process is to stimulate vocal sound-making, convey the patterns of spoken language, and provide a monitoring mechanism for the sound-maker. A major purpose and accomplishment of the prolonged practice in vocal sound-making by hearing babies is to automatize coordination between respiration and articulation. For the unaided ears of congenitally deaf babies, there is neither the stimulus for vocal practice nor the joy of feedback. The deafness-imposed silence wipes out a whole program of "drill" through which a hearing baby gradually acquires the ability to "breathe" speech. By the time most deaf children are taught to speak, respiration and articulation are two things apart. Details of various methods and devices used in teaching speech to the deaf can be found in the copious literature on the subject (Calvert and Silverman, 1975a,b; Fellendorf, 1977; Strong, 1975). Briefly, the two main approaches are termed multisensory and unisensory. In the multisensory approach, tactile, visual, and auditory senses are all used, aided by various teacher-made reinforcements (New, 1940, 1949, 1954; Vorce, 1974), and, in certain programs, by technological aids that supply visible and/or tactile transformations of speech patterns (Boothroyd, 1975; Boothroyd et al., 1975; Larkin, 1976; Peterson, 1962; Pickett, 1976; Pronovost, 1978; Strong,

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1975). The pupils watch how a word looks as spoken by the teacher and as visually transformed or tactually represented by the technological aid being used; feel the vibrations the word makes in the teacher's nose, throat, and face; hear what they can of how the word sounds through amplified residual hearing; commit the inputs to visual, tactile, and auditory memory; synthesize the memories into imitative utterance, subject to correction; and then drill until the word they are learning to say acquires intelligibility in the judgment of the teacher and in the pattern of the technological aid. Emphasis is on articulation. Special training in coordinating articulation and respiration is rarely given. This system of instruction is known as the oral I aural approach (Simmons-Martin, 1972). In approaches that are unisensory, the teaching process emphasizes the use of one sensory input. In the Tadoma method (Gruver, 1955), for example, the tacile-kinesthetic avenue is used. The child feels the vibrations and muscular movements made by the spoken word by placing his hands on the teacher's face, and then on his own face in order to imitate what he has felt of the teacher's utterance. In order for the child to get the full effect of vibration, a blindfold is used, or the child's eyes are shut so that vibration becomes the only speech-lead. The "blinding" operations are discarded once vibratory sensitivity is well established. Inspiration for the Tadoma approach came from the better speech various deaf-blind persons were observed to have as compared with deaf persons. More recent unisensory procedures owe their inception to remarkable advances in hearing aid technology (Risberg, 1971; Israel, 1975), in audiological and other techniques for early detection and diagnosis of impaired hearing (Downs, 1968; Lloyd and Dahle, 1976; National Joint Committee on Infant Hearing Screening, 1971, 1973), and in the early use of hearing aids, in some programs during the first few weeks of life (Griffiths, 1975). Taken together, these advances have generated the possibility of creating a "heari n g " environment for deaf children from infancy onward, thus activating the practice necessary for coordinating respiration and articulation, and giving the children enough of the sounds of spoken language to develop their own systems of encoding what they hear into meaningful language. Prominent among the auditory-unisensory approaches are the Acoupedic system (Niemann, 1972; Pollack, 1964, 1970), which is based on early detection of hearing impairment, early fitting of hearing aids, a normal learning environment, and the development of language solely through audition, and the Verbotonal system (Craig, Craig, and DiJohnson, 1972; Eisenberg and Santore, 1976; Guberina, 1964), which follows the early intervention pattern of the acoupedic program and the use of special equipment for lowfrequency amplification along with body movements and musical stimulation to give pupils a feel for the rhythms, stresses, and phrasings of speech.

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There is also the Auditory Global approach (Calvert and Silverman, 1975a), which, while not exclusively auditory-unisensory, places the same emphasis on early auditory input of fluent connected speech as do programs that are. In conversations with numbers of severely, congenitally deaf young adult "successes" of auditory programs, I have been deeply impressed with the excellence of their spoken language in sound and fluency. In some cases, the difference from "hearing" speech was barely noticeable. The need to study these phenomena is a pressing one. Concerning the deaf at large, intelligible speech appears the exception rather than the rule. Brannon concludes his review of research by saying that "it is very difficult for the average congenitally deaf person to achieve useful levels of speech intelligibility. It is low in most, perhaps 2 0 - 2 5 % " (1966, p. 130). Brannon's estimate is not far from that obtained by Tato and Arcella in an investigation of the speech intelligibility of 20 educated young deaf adults as understood by a group of normally hearing listeners familiar with " d e a f " speech: "The average percentage of these 20 cases shows less than 30% (27.424) as regards the intelligibility of the speech of deaf-mutes in conversation" (1955, p. 162). Other studies of speech intelligibility also come close to these estimates. Markides (1970) found that about 31% of the words spoken by hearing-impaired day and residential school subjects were intelligible to their teachers, and 19% to those unfamiliar with deaf speech. Ling (1976) cites a doctoral study by Heidinger (1972), which found that less than 20% of the words in short sentences spoken by deaf pupils in a residential school were intelligible to three experienced teachers of the deaf, and another doctoral study by C. R. Smith (1972), which found a mean of 18.7% in word intelligibility as judged by 120 listeners unfamiliar with deaf speech. Ling cites numerous other studies that yield similarly poor findings. Of deaf persons with high speech intelligibility, Brannon astutely comments, "The crucial factor seems to be not non-verbal intelligence but the ability to make use of residual hearing, even among those with losses of 75 decibels or m o r e " (1966, p. 130; italics added). The sound of "typical" deaf speech is difficult to describe since it is a composite of a number of speech defects plus deficiencies in syntax and vocabulary. A sure give-away is voice quality. In a study conducted by Calvert (1962), teachers of the deaf variously described the quality as tense, breathy, harsh, and throaty. The deaf, it must be remembered, do not "breathe" speech. It seems forced from the throat. This defect in speech breathing is a major contributor to the deficiencies of deaf speech but is hardly ever subjected to training despite the alerts sounded in the pioneer research of Hudgins (1936, 1937, 1946). Nickerson (1975) provides a comprehensive review of investigations of

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the speech characteristics of deaf persons in regard to timing and rhythm, pitch and intonation, velar control, articulation, and voice quality. He makes the special point that although the defects noted in these areas can be separated for purposes of analysis, they cannot be separated for purposes of remediation. "A problem-by-problem approach to training may be bound to yield only limited success" (1975, p. 358). Nickerson deplores the fact that no successful alternative approaches have yet been devised. Ross (1976) sums up the state of the art in teaching the deaf to speak with the question, "If a hearing impaired child can communicate effectively, using both oral expression and reception, only to his teachers and his immediate family, can this be considered successful oral communication?" (1976, pp. 324-25). In Ross's view an important contributor to this unsatisfactory situation is the unsatisfactory state of speech instruction, notably the failure to use the expertise of audiologists and speech pathologists, who are better trained than are teachers of the deaf. The importance of the speech pathologist is also stressed by Bennett (1974), while Ross and Calvert (1977) offer an impressive guidelines-document for the establishment of audiology programs in educational facilities for hearing-impaired children. The premises on which the guides are based are "1) the normal primacy of the auditory channel for speech and language development, 2) the evidence relating to the extent of residual hearing among 'deaf' children, and 3) the currently inadequate exploitation of residual hearing" (1977, p. 153). To sum up: the speech patterns of the deaf are typically impaired by deficiencies in timing and rhythm, pitch and intonation, velar control, articulation, and voice quality, plus deficiencies in syntax and vocabulary. Research indicates no lack of mental or vocal ability on the part of the deaf for learning speech. Therefore, the accusing finger points to ineffective instructional practices as the most likely cause of deficiency (Newsounds, 1977). The expectation grows increasingly strong that creating an "auditory environment" for the deaf from infancy onward through expert amplification of residual hearing reinforced by expert auditory training will result in significant gains in spoken language. Lipreading. Lipreading is the visual reception and comprehension of messages conveyed in spoken language. For persons with impaired hearing, it is a key communicative link to the speaking world. Certain terminological purists do not take kindly to the term "lipreadi n g . " Some maintain that the hearing-impaired receiver of spoken language is not reading lips but rather the speech that issues forth from them. They prefer the term "speech reading," originally proposed in 1889 (E. A. Fay, 1889) and now given new life. Others contend that the lipreader is not reading speech but the ' 'thoughts transmitted via the visual components of oral discourse" (O'Neil and Oyer, 1961, p. 2). An alternate term, "visual hear-

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i n g , " used by Mason (O'Neil and Oyer, 1961, p. 147) has won a few proponents. By and large, however, the old standby "lipreading" remains the most commonly used, with "speechreading" a close second. One popular belief is that lipreading is a verbatim visual intake of every word uttered by a speaker; another is that the ability is automatically activated as compensation for impaired hearing. Both beliefs are wide of the mark. Lipreading is by no means the magic route to speech comprehension that it is often supposed to be. Numerous hearing-impaired persons cannot master the skill despite exceptional language levels and mental endowment. Even where lipreading is above average, the lipreader comes up against such visual obstacles as stiff lips, poker faces, facial expression concealed by sunglasses, protruding teeth, moustaches, mouthings and grimaces, all of which make it impossible to see clearly the fleeting mouth movements that provide the clues to what the speaker is saying. To add to the difficulties, there are countless words that require little if any lip movement for utterance and so cannot be seen at all. Finally, there are numerous words of completely unrelated meaning that look exactly alike on the lips, as, for example, abuse and amuse; bloom and plume; and smell and spell; clam, clamp and clap; bump, mum, pump, and pup. What goes into the making of a good lipreader is still an open question. The search for an answer has led into a number of possible related areas, including intelligence (Lewis, 1972; O'Neill and Davidson, 1956; Pintner, 1929; Reid, 1947; Roche et al., 1971; Simmons, 1959); audition (Erber, 1971, 1972; Ewertsen Nielsen, and Nielsen, 1970; Siegenthaler and Gruber, 1969); visual acuity (Braly, 1938; Erber, 1971; Hardick, Oyer, and Irion, 1970; Stockwell, 1952); visual memory (Blair, 1957; Espeseth, 1969; Furth, 1961; Hiskey, 1950; Neyhus, 1969; Pintner, 1929; Sharp, 1972; Simmons, 1959); visual synthesis (Sanders and Coscarelli, 1970; Sharp, 1972; Simmons, 1959); amount of facial exposure (Berger, Garner, and Sudman, 1971; Lowell, 1959); gestures (Berger and Popelka, 1971; Popelka and Erber, 1971); concept formation (O'Neill and Davidson, 1956; Simmons, 1959; Tiffany and Kates, 1972); rhythm (Heider and Heider, 1940a,b; Sharp, 1972; Simmons, 1959), and more, such as attentiveness, attributes of the speaker-sender, and the investigative materials used (O'Neill and Oyer, 1961), the most popular of which are motion picture tests of lipreading ability (Heider and Heider, 1940b; Mason, 1943; Morkovin and Moore, 1948-1949; Utley, 1946). Erber (1977) cites other tests of lipreading ability and proposes some evaluative approaches of his own. However, as Clarke and Ling remark, "Publications on speech reading . . . have contributed very little new information to our corpus of knowledge concerning this skill" (1976, p. 23). In a similar vein, Farwell concludes her comprehensive review of research with the statement, "Speechreading, the hallmark of deaf

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education, remains an e n i g m a " ( I 9 7 6 ; p. 27). Open to question are the tests used in the various studies, the samples surveyed, and the methodological procedures employed. In my opinion, it is doubtful whether the isolates involved in lipreading will disclose the dynamic interplay and counterbalance of attributes, abilities, and special skills that go into the making of a good lipreader. We turn therefore to the lipreaders themselves for some of the real-life facts concerning the art. How the process works in life is described by Rosenthal: l i p r e a d e r s d o n ' t " r e a d " s o m u c h as pick u p c l u e s f r o m the m o u t h , f a c e , a n d b o d y e x p r e s s i o n s t o fill in t h e s p a c e s of s o u n d s they d o n ' t h e a r . T h i s isn't e a s y . For e v e r y E n g l i s h - l a n g u a g e s p e e c h m o v e m e n t o n e can r e a d , t h e r e a r e t w o or t h r e e that are all but i m p o s s i b l e to r e a d . L i p r e a d i n g is m o r e like filling in the b l a n k s of a c r o s s w o r d p u z z l e than r e a d i n g a m o u t h s y l l a b l e - b y - s y l l a b l e or w o r d b y - w o r d . You lip-read by c o m b i n i n g m o v e m e n t s d e c i p h e r e d visually with k n o w l e d g e of the c o n v e r s a t i o n ' s c o n t e x t , just as with a c r o s s w o r d p u z z l e y o u c o m b i n e t h e letters you a l r e a d y h a v e with the c l u e s p r o v i d e d a b o u t t h e w o r d you are t r y i n g to figure out. ( 1 9 7 5 , p . 158)

Rosenthal's word picture summarizes the experiences of many lipreaders. Further information comes from a study conducted by Fusfeld (1958), who analyzed the reports submitted by the members of two groups of deaf college graduates, both groups of above-average achievement but one composed of good lipreaders, the other of indifferent ones. According to a member of the latter group, successful lipreading depends on a favorable interplay of a number of related factors: 1. F a c t o r s inherent in the s p e a k e r , n a m e l y , his b e a r i n g , the c h a r a c t e r (positive or n e g a t i v e ) of his l i p - m o v e m e n t s , the inherent n a t u r e of his v o c a b u l a r y and s u b j e c t m a t t e r , his p r o n u n c i a t i o n , his facial e x p r e s s i o n , his i n t e l l i g e n c e ; 2. Factors p e c u l i a r to t h e l i p r e a d e r , a s , a m o u n t of h e a r i n g left, v o c a b u l a r y , u n d e r s t a n d i n g , e y e s i g h t , intelligence; and 3. Factors e x t e r n a l to b o t h , such as d i s t a n c e b e t w e e n s p e a k e r a n d l i p r e a d e r , a m o u n t of light, e x t r a n e o u s facial f e a t u r e s , i . e . , m o u s t a c h e , d e n t u r e s , h e a r i n g a i d s , s e x . ( F u s f e l d , 1958, p. 239)

In regard to sex, Rosenthal observes that " w o m e n tend to be better lipreaders than men . . . no one knows w h y " (1975, p. 158). He also notes another important factor in effective lipreading—the lipreader's ability to cope with the fatigue induced by having to concentrate perpetually on a speaker's face while at the same time performing the mental gymnastics necessary for comprehension. On the basis of his experience as a teacher of the deaf, Scouten (1969) summarizes the essentials for lipreading as: vocabulary; syntax; synthesization, meaning the ability to grasp instantaneously whole units, whole words,

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whole phrases and whole sentences; intuition, the ability to "put two and two together"; and experience in the use of the English language. He adds, "If any one of these five essentials is diminished, speechreading skill is d i m i n i s h e d " (pages unnumbered). Various approaches are used to help lipreaders fill in what Rosenthal calls the empty " s p a c e s " between perceived lip movements. The oldest approach is instruction, introduced in this country in 1864 by Harriet B. Rogers (Peck, Samuelson, and Lehman, 1926) and used primarily with the hard of hearing. Among the most prominent instructional methods are the Nitchie (1930), the Miiller-Walle (Bruhn, 1930), and the Jena (Bunger, 1944). Copious references to instructional methods and practice materials for lipreaders can be found in Fellendorf 's bibliography (1977). It has also been found that the hearing aid and auditory training can be of great help in cueing the lipreader (Heider, 1943; Prall, 1957; Siegenthaler and Gruber, 1969). Another aid is an ingenious device designed by Upton (1968), in the form of eyeglasses fitted with five tiny lamps which supplement lip clues by means of light-flash information about a speaker's articulations. Another form of visible cue is the M o u t h - H a n d System (Holm, 1972), developed early in this century by Georg Forschhammer, headmaster of a Danish school for the deaf. In this system, phonetic hand-position symbols accompany a speaker's utterances as visible aids to the lipreader for invisible or ambiguous articulations. In this country, the Cued Speech method developed by Cornett (Clarke and Ling, 1976; Cornett, 1967, 1975; Moores, 1969) employs the same principle of manual phonetic cues. No matter what the approach, success in sustained conversational lipreading and especially in instructional classroom lipreading demands one competence above all others, and that is an understanding of the vocabulary and syntax of the language uttered by the speaker. Unknown words and unfamiliar syntactic patterns cannot be meaningfully lipread. Not that linguistic ability guarantees lipreading ability. There are numbers of linguistically gifted deaf persons who are poor lipreaders. However, good lipreaders are good linguistic performers. And here we encounter a major obstacle to lipreading on the part of deaf children and language-deficient deaf adults. Costello (1958) observes that the deaf child l i v e s in a w o r l d of here and n o w , without w o r d s , w i t h o u t an orderly l a n g u a g e pattern, and in m a n y i n s t a n c e s w i t h o u t the c o n c e p t s w h i c h l a n g u a g e s y m b o l s p r e s u p p o s e . T h u s the a c h i e v e m e n t of s p e e c h - r e a d i n g for the deaf child is not c o n f i n e d to training on the differentiation o f the p e r c e i v e d visual s i g n a l s . It inv o l v e s perceptual g r o w t h , c o n c e p t f o r m a t i o n , d e v e l o p m e n t o f v o c a b u l a r y , a n d ability to deal with the m e a n i n g c o n v e y e d by m y r i a d s o f l a n g u a g e patterns.

Because of a deaf child's unformed linguistic state plus the ambiguities inherent in lipreading and the strains imposed on a lipreader, Vernon estimates

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that "the average deaf child understands about 5% of what is said in Spreadi n g " (1972, p. 531). However, many young deaf children respond appropriately to considerably more than 5% of the messages a speaker conveys and so give the impression they are lipreading. They are not lipreading in the classic sense, but are doing what I have come to call "concept-reading." They take in the total situation, focus on the particular aspect involving themselves and the speakers, put "two and two together," and respond to the concepts abstracted. The true test of lipreading ability comes when the child is exposed to sustained conversation and to spoken instructional language in the classroom. Here it is likely that the ability to understand lipread language will not rise much above Vernon's estimate for the young "average deaf child." Similarly for language-deficient deaf adults, ordinary conversation contains more blank spaces than lipreadable clues. And again, some ingenious deaf adults are occasionally able to fill in the blanks through remarkable associative feats and mental agility. In so doing, they perform not as lipreaders but seemingly as mind readers. But the strains of such performance are enormous, and it cannot survive sustained conversation or substitute for lipreading ability. Among the most important communicative lacks in lipread language are the messages conveyed by vocal intonation: the warmth, the subtleties, the rhythms and stresses, the whole "orchestra of the language" (Robson, 1959), as contained in the sounds of the voice. There are no substitutes for these in lipread language. To use facial expression and gestures as substitutes is risky. Exaggerated facial expressions tend to distort lip movements, and punctuating gestures tend to distract the lipreader. So for the profoundly deaf, lipread language can be a rather flat form of communication. Yet despite all the difficulties, there are those among the profoundly deaf since birth who are phenomenal lipreaders; but such persons are exceptional in other respects as well. Among the deaf at large, in lipreading as in speaking, reading and writing, only a small percentage can be considered efficient achievers in the verbal arts. Finger spelling. Fingerspelling, sometimes called dactylology, is a manual form of verbal language based on the formation of the letters of the alphabet by designated positions of fingers and hands; in this country one hand is used (see Appendix C), and in the English system both hands are used. Words and sentences are spelled out in these manual alphabets in what Fusfeld calls " a sort of writing in the a i r " (1958b, p. 268). Fingerspelling has long been used as a method of communication. Abernathy's absorbing historical sketch (1959) traces its use to the ancient Egyptians, Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans. He relates that pictures of dactylology can be found in Latin Bibles of the tenth century and that during the Middle

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Ages it was used by monks in enforced silence and by others for secret or silent communication. However, fingerspelling does not appear to have been used with the deaf until the early seventeenth century, when a one-hand alphabet was introduced by Juan Pablo Bonet of Spain as an aid in teaching the deaf to speak. In this country, Zenas F. Westervelt, Superintendent of the Western New York Institute for the Deaf at Rochester, envisioned a broader use for fingerspelling than as a speech aid. He was convinced that the Manual Alphabet offered the ideal means for teaching the deaf grammatically accurate verbal language. He also felt that the easy visibility of fingerspelling could help in lipreading as well as in speech instruction. In 1876, Westervelt introduced fingerspelling into his school as the chief instructional method, beginning with the earliest kindergarten level, to the complete exclusion of nonverbal manual methods both in and out of class (E. A. Fay, 1889, 1896). This created something of a furor among the doubting Thomases of the day, but many of their criticisms were stilled by G. O. Fay's glowing first-hand report (1889) of the success of Westervelt's daring innovation. Westervelt's manual alphabet method, known today as the Rochester method (Galloway, 1964; Scouten, 1964), is still practiced at the school he headed, now named the Rochester School for the Deaf, and at a few other schools, though with some modifications. Basically, it remains dedicated to the verbal instruction of deaf pupils through the concurrent use of fingerspelling and lipreading, with a strong support program of reading and speech. However, in certain schools the pupils are free to use nonverbal manual communication outside the classroom. Also, not all schools follow the procedure of using fingerspelling with preschool children (Morkovin, 1960; Scouten, 1967); some do not begin its use until the intermediate level. For researchers, these and other institutionally inherent variables raise confounding problems in investigating the reported benefits of fingerspelling in the education of the deaf. Quigley (1969) skillfully maneuvered around the problems without completely overcoming them in an investigation of three "Rochester method" schools, each of which had as comparison-control two residential "non-Rochester" schools similar in size and student make-up to their experimental mate. On the basis of an exceptionally thoughtful interpretation of results, Quigley concludes: 1. The use of fingerspelling in combination with speech as practiced in the Rochester Method can lead to improved achievement in deaf students, particularly on those variables where meaningful language is involved. 2. When good oral techniques are used in conjunction with fingerspelling, there need be no detrimental effects to the acquisition of oral skills. 3. Fingerspelling is likely to produce greater benefits when used with younger rather than with older children. It was used successfully in the experimental study with children as young as three and a half years of age.

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In

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J o h n s o n ( 1 9 4 8 ) c o n d u c t e d a study o f pupils at the Illinois S c h o o l f o r the D e a f f r o m the o r a l , a c o u s t i c , and manual d e p a r t m e n t s r e s p e c t i v e l y in regard to r e a d i n g , l i p r e a d i n g , s p e e c h - h e a r i n g , hearing plus lipreading, ing, and

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fingerspelling

and reading. J o h n s o n

a l s o advised that s i n c e lipreading c o m p r e h e n s i o n b y the oral pupils was s o inferior to their ability to understand to r e p l a c e lipreading with

fingerspelling

fingerspelling,

it m i g h t b e a wise m o v e

f o r all oral pupils w h o l a c k e d u s a b l e

h e a r i n g a c t i v i t y , a history o f h e a r i n g e x p e r i e n c e , or high lipreading s c o r e s . H e s t e r ( 1 9 6 4 ) reported on the merits o f

fingerspelling

in

instructional

c o m m u n i c a t i o n through various c o m p a r i s o n s o f pupils taught b y

fingerspell-

ing f o r up to 5 y e a r s with pupils o f the s a m e a g e and c o n d i t i o n w h o had not b e e n e x p o s e d to taught through

fingerspelling.

T h e results o f testing s h o w e d that the pupils

the c o m b i n e d

use o f

fingerspelling

and s p e e c h

achieved

h i g h e r s c o r e s in reading and in lipreading than did the pupils not taught in this w a y . H o w e v e r , in v i e w o f the n u m b e r o f v a r i a b l e s w h i c h could not b e c o n t r o l l e d in this study, H e s t e r c o n c l u d e s ,

" A l t h o u g h t h e o b j e c t i v e results

a c h i e v e d s o far d o not p r o v e very m u c h , w e think that the e v i d e n c e indicates that the s i m u l t a n e o u s approach ( i . e . ,

fingerspelling

and s p e e c h ) should be

c o n t i n u e d o v e r a l o n g e r p e r i o d o f t i m e with m o r e a c c u r a t e approach to o b j e c t i v e m e a s u r e m e n t " ( 1 9 6 4 , p. 2 2 1 ) . Viewers of good

fingerspelled

communication

are g e n e r a l l y

impressed

with its speed and question h o w it c o m p a r e s in speed with w r i t i n g , and h o w it c o m p a r e s in a c c u r a c y o f r e c e p t i o n with reading. In a small study, F u s f e l d ( 1 9 5 8 ) found that it t o o k the 12 m e n and w o m e n w h o served as s u b j e c t s h a l f the t i m e t o

fingerspell

a p a s s a g e o f 3 9 w o r d s totaling 1 7 8 letters as to write

the p a s s a g e . A n o t h e r small study was c o n d u c t e d b y S t u c k l e s s and Pollard ( 1 9 7 7 ) to c o m p a r e the a m o u n t o f verbal i n f o r m a t i o n visually p r o c e s s e d by 19 e l e m e n t a r y through

and s e c o n d a r y - s c h o o l

fingerspelling.

p r o c e s s e d than

d e a f students through

reading

and

T h e y f o u n d that printed words w e r e m o r e readily

fingerspelled

s i o n . O t h e r studies involving

words, hence more facilitative o f comprehenfingerspelling

g e n e r a l l y include the m e t h o d in

relation to m u l t i m o d a l (total) c o m m u n i c a t i o n . S e v e r a l are c i t e d in T a b l e 5 . 1 . L i k e o t h e r verbal f o r m s ,

fingerspelling

d e p e n d s f o r its g r a m m a t i c a l

flu-

e n c y on l a n g u a g e c o m p e t e n c e ; f o r e x p r e s s i v e s p e e d , on manual and digital dexterity as well as s t a m i n a ; and f o r r e c e p t i o n , on the v i e w e r ' s ability to s y n t h e s i z e the letters f o r m e d by the flying fingers into a flow o f l a n g u a g e .

PRELINGUISTIC DEAFNESS

92

M a r t i n S t e r n b e r g , a c o n s u m m a t e m a s t e r o f all m a n n e r o f c o m m u n i c a t i o n s u s e d b y the d e a f , h a s this t o s a y o f

fingerspelling:

T o t h e uninitiated, this m e t h o d might s e e m as distracting as reading a m e s s a g e as it is being typed out on a m a c h i n e — a n d m u c h m o r e difficult. With perseverance c o m e s expertise, as in so m a n y other skills. T h e skier, f o r e x a m p l e , starts with the s n o w - p l o w , slowly acquires his ski legs, begins to use his body to m a n e u v e r around curves; his legs gradually relax, and he begins to e n j o y s k i i n g , rather than fighting it. So with fingerspelling. Staccato, letter-by-letter fingerspelling, o f t e n a c c o m p a n i e d by vocally s o u n d i n g out the letters, is helpful to no o n e . With practice, this should give way to a feeling f o r t h e r h y t h m s of fingerspelled w o r d s or portions of w o r d s . W e begin to render t h e m in a series of s m o o t h l y flowing bundles of m o v e m e n t s , each in turn flowing into s u c c e e d i n g o n e s . G o o d fingerspelling is easy to c o m p r e h e n d , and a truly skilled fingerspeller is a j o y to watch. It is entirely possible to inject elements of m a n u a l alliteration (a deliberate d o w n s w e e p on the repeated letter is o n e w a y ) . A s s o n a n c e , t o o , can b e rendered through r h y t h m i c m o v e m e n t of the h a n d while fingerspelling t h e portions of the w o r d in question. O n o m a t o p o e i c fingerspelling is particularly b e a u t i f u l . Bernard B r a g g ' s " R e f l e c t i o n s " is a classic e x a m p l e of spelledout w o r d s creating pictures. H e r e both h a n d s , f a c i n g o n e another, spell out w o r d s s i m u l t a n e o u s l y , c o n j u r i n g the i m a g e of a mirror. T h e possibilities are e n d l e s s . O n e can utter fingerspelled s h o u t s , fingerspelled w h i s p e r s , simulate a fingerspelled conversation b e t w e e n t w o p e r s o n s , using both h a n d s to represent the c o m m u n i c a t o r s and their interaction. M a r y Beth Miller d o e s a m e m o r a b l e vignette of a pair of lovers i m m e r s e d in sweet nothings. Y o u can see the c o y n e s s of the girl; the s e l f - a s s u r a n c e of t h e b o y . All this through the w a y her fingers m o v e . T h e conversation is there, y e s , but so is a great deal m o r e , (private c o m m u n i c a t i o n )

B e r n a r d B r a g g a n d M a r y B e t h M i l l e r , m e n t i o n e d a b o v e , are g i f t e d d e a f t h e atrical p e r f o r m e r s . T h e " g r e a t d e a l m o r e " w i t h w h i c h S t e r n b e r g c o n c l u d e s h i s narrative c o n v e y s that b e n e a t h t h e s t o d g y d e s i g n a t i o n " f i n g e r s p e l l i n g " is a l i v e l y f o r m o f c o m m u n i c a t i o n that is c a p a b l e o f m a n u a l l y p r o d u c i n g n o t o n l y v e r b a l lang u a g e but a l s o m a n y e q u i v a l e n t s o f t h e o r c h e s t r a o f t h e l a n g u a g e — i t s

in-

tonation, stress, m o d u l a t i o n , timing, r h y t h m — t h u s g i v i n g surprising dimension to the vitality,

impact,

l i k e l i h o o d is that e x p e r t

and versatility

fingerspelled

of this l a n g u a g e f o r m .

l a n g u a g e imparts c o n s i d e r a b l y

The more

s e m a n t i c s c o p e a n d s u b t l e t i e s t o c o m m u n i c a t i o n than is p o s s i b l e w i t h lipread language. Understandably, fluent

fingerspelling

is a t e c h n i q u e that is b e y o n d

the syntactic and s e m a n t i c disabilities of the deaf-at-large.

The American Sign Although

verbal

language

is

the

Language

commonest

form

of

human

com-

m u n i c a t i o n , g e s t u r e l a n g u a g e is the e a r l i e s t . P e i r e l a t e s that " g e s t u r a l lan-

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93

guage is commonly conceded to have preceded oral speech, some say by at least one million y e a r s " (1949, p. 13). He continues: It is further estimated that some seven hundred thousand distinct elementary gestures can be produced by facial expression, postures, movements of the arms, wrists, fingers, etc., and their combinations. This imposing array of gestural symbols would be quite sufficient to provide the equivalent of a full-blown modern language. It is quite conceivable: first, that a gestural system of communication could have arisen prior to and independently of spoken language; second, that such a system, had historical precedents been favorable, might have altogether supplanted the spoken tongue; third, that it could today supply the world's needs for an international c o m m o n system. ( 1 9 4 9 , pp. 1 3 - 1 4 )

An especially provocative aspect of gestural language is its apparent closeness to the raw data of the thoughts of pre- or non-linguistic humans. In its primal state, gesture language would seem to be an almost direct rendition in ideo-kinesic form of mental concepts as they flow through the mind. Owing to millennia of contacts with cultural and linguistic influences, gestural language as used today has lost much of its primal character; but wherever and however it is used, it remains a language whose basic vocabulary consists of concepts rather than words. Such is the American Sign Language of the deaf. Known also as Ameslan, the American Sign Language (Sternberg, 1981; Stokoe, 1978) is an ideo-kinesic form of communication commonly used by the American deaf. As practiced by these persons, Ameslan is more than the " m a n u a l " language it is usually called, since more is involved than the hands; nor is the language restricted to conventional signs, since more is involved than gestural symbols. The language is, rather, a meshing of many kinds of body movements and positions into a flow of picto-kinesic expression. Depending on the situation as well as the expertise of the " s p e a k e r , " the traditional sign language of the deaf is composed of varying quantities and qualities of natural gesture, conventional signs, fingerspelling, facial expression, body movements, postures and positions, and many other kinesic subtleties. Not all deaf persons know the language of signs, some because they have been reared in purely verbal environments and adhere to the oral philosophy, and others because they have never learned any conventional method of communication. Among the latter can be found extraordinary pantomimic talents. The individual signs from which the language derives its name depict concepts and ideas expressed through conventional positions and movements, mainly of the hands and arms, and come from a variety of sources. Some are natural gestures or combinations of gestures. For example, the sign for

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PRELINGUISTIC DEAFNESS

" e a t " is simply the bunched fingers of one hand pecking at the mouth; for " g l u t t o n y , " the s a m e sign but more forcibly m a d e using both hands as if c r a m m i n g the mouth with f o o d . Other sign configurations are gestural abstractions of s o m e aspect of what the sign represents. T h e sign for " n a m e , " for e x a m p l e , is m a d e by placing the index and middle fingers of one hand crosswise over the index and middle fingers of the other, thus forming an X configuration. Higgins traces the configuration back to the " m a r k X used by persons w h o cannot write their own n a m e s " (1942, p. 47). Other signs have been so changed in the course of time and use that it is difficult to trace their origins. T h e r e are also local signs, colloquial signs, slang signs, and " f a m i l i e s " of signs. O n e such family involves the m i n d , and the family m e m b e r s all " h a v e their locus on or about the f o r e h e a d , i . e . , think, forget, understand, r e m e m b e r , insane, wise, stupid, f e e b l e m i n d e d , imagine, d r e a m , i d e a " (Fusfeld, 1958b, p. 273). Fant (1964) explains that these conventional configurations " e x p r e s s the n o u n , as it were, and the other parts of the body supply the m o d i f i e r s " (pages unnumbered). Paramount a m o n g the modifiers is facial expression. " T h e f a c e , " says Fant, " f u n c t i o n s for manual communication as the inflections of the voice for w o r d s " (pages unnumbered; see figure 4.3). Other important modifiers are shoulder m o v e m e n t s , leg m o v e m e n t s and positions, and even the " l o w l y f e e t " are sometimes involved. A d d e d semantic distinctions and subtleties are conveyed by the vigor and speed with which a sign is m a d e . It has been estimated that there are up to 2 0 0 0 formal signs (Fant, 1964); but when joined with the various modifiers, each of the signs lends itself to a multiplicity of meanings that give surprising depth, dimension, and emotional tone to the communicative range of signed language, far more than for lipread language. Bragg (1973) calls attention to the fact that Ameslan is seldom used in its purest f o r m by the majority of deaf persons. " O u r true vernacular is always m a d e up of varying percentages of literal and nonliteral aspects of expression. . . . For s o m e of us w h o are high verbal, it is always English that dominates over A m e s l a n , for others w h o are low verbal, it is the other way a r o u n d " (p. 673). Bragg suggests that the term Ameslish (a combination of " A m e s l a n " and " E n g l i s h " ) presents a truer picture of communication by deaf people. Figure 4.3. Colloquialisms, demonstrated by Bernard Bragg, that give color and emphasis to Ameslish. Listed under each picture are possible verbal equivalents of the nuances captured by the accompanying facial expressions. The sign shown in the left group is derived from the basic sign for "finish," and the sign at right represents "what's up?" Although the intensities vary according to meaning, the signs remain broadly the same. From Bragg (1973).

Cut it out, for o n c e and all! N o m o n k e y business, y o u d i g ? I really m e a n it!

W h a t ' s the big idea? W h y did it have to h a p p e n like that? W h a t the heck are y o u talking about?

W h a t shall I d o , n o w that I k n o w about it? This is the e n d of the world, for sure! Horror of Horrors!

W h a t ' s the matter? Whatever has h a p p e n e d ? W h y are y o u upset?

Look, I k n o w what y o u ' r e u p to. O h , y o u ' d not think me that naive. Q u i t pulling my leg, will y o u ?

Just what did y o u d o b e h i n d my back? W h a t are y o u u p to? W h a t are y o u k e e p i n g f r o m m e ?

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PRE LINGUISTIC DEAFNESS

Treasured though the language is by the deaf, various charges have been leveled against it. One is that it is a conspicuously unattractive form of communication. But as in spoken language, so in signed. There is elegant expression, as in deaf theater and on the lecture platform. There is informal everyday conversational expression that could be likened to the New Yorkese " I d o w a n n a " meaning " I don't want t o , " and there is the sloppy casual exchange often used in the home, whose New Yorkese equivalents are exemplified by " W a ? " for " W h a t do you w a n t ? " and " J e e t ? " for " D i d you e a t ? " Also, until recently, instruction in the sign language was banned in most schools for the deaf. As a result, signs were passed along from student to student, and in this " b o o t l e g " process they suffered considerable deterioration. In consequence, signs are seldom seen in their pristine forms and beauty among the deaf at large. A more serious charge made against the language is that it is simply an ungrammatical linkage of gestures whose effects on children, according to Van Uden, are that they are "educated directly for the deaf community, a ghetto apart from the dishumanizing influence of the signs themselves because a sign language is much too much a 'depicting language' keeping the thinking slow, much too concrete, and too broken in p i e c e s " (1970, p. 103). Van Uden's abrasive comments express the feelings of most opponents of the use of Ameslan for instructional purposes. These perennial debates over the instructional use of Ameslan have obscured an even larger linguistic issue: Is the American Sign Language a language at all? A chief argument against the " l a n g u a g e " status is that Ameslan lacks the syntactic structure of English. This is, of course, an absurd criterion for establishing language status. The grammar of a language is derived not from the grammar of another language but from the way its building blocks have been put together in time and use by a particular language community. Every language has its own " p e r s o n a l i t y " and its own rules of grammar. There is no universal syntax to which all must conform, least of all Ameslan, whose building blocks are concepts rather than words. Ameslan has also been downgraded because of a number of linguistic lacks. Fant mentions a few: "There are no articles ( ' a , ' ' a n , ' 'the') in Ameslan, . . . The verb " t o b e " does not exist in Ameslan. . . . There are no tenses in A m e s l a n " ( 1 9 7 4 - 7 5 , p. 2). There are undoubtedly other linguistic lacks as well, but not too dissimilar lacks are found in recognized languages. Harold G. Henderson, an eminent translator of the Japanese form of poetry called haiku, writes, "First, there are no articles in the Japanese language, practically no pronouns, and in general no distinction between singular and plural. Japanese " p r e p o s i t i o n s " come after the word they modify

The Language

Environment

97

and therefore are really "postpositions" (1959, p. vii). He continues, " t h e Japanese language is constructed differently from ours; there are, for example, no relative pronouns—any descriptive clause must precede its noun—and I was often confronted with the dilemma of whether to try to follow the strict grammatical form or whether to follow the order of thought, and to supply the comparatively unimportant intermediate words in accordance with English standards" (1959, p. viii). Yet none of these differences from English has been known to cause Japanese persons to lose face over their status as human beings or to suspect that their mother tongue did not qualify as a proper language. An illustration of Henderson's dilemma is his word-for-word transcription from the Japanese, and his order-of-thought translation of a haiku (1959, p. 7): Word-for-word transcription:

Order-of-thought translation:

Tower / on / when-I-climb / cryptomeria's / top-twig / on / butterfly / one The tower high I climb, there, on that fir top sits a butterfly!

These are not too unlike Fant's transcription from Ameslan to English, which illustrates his theory that the order of signs follows the order of events and ideas as they occur in life ( 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 7 5 , p. 2): Sign-for-sign expression: English equivalent:

Now morning / sunrise / I-look-at / thrill It was a thrill to watch the sunrise this morning.

There is a striking similarity in feel and expression between Henderson's and Fant's examples, the one from a spoken language, the other from a signed language. It is not unlikely that similarities in word order will be found between the language of signs and other esoteric spoken languages in which expression, hence grammar, is governed by order of thought or events. We do not know. Studies of Ameslan are mainly involved with descriptive analyses and with comparisons of the syntax of Ameslan and spoken English (Bellugi, 1972; Schlesinger, 1971; Stokoe, 1974; Tervoort, 1961). Regarding signs and syntax, I tend to view thinking in pure signs as resembling what Vygot.sky calls "thinking in pure m e a n i n g s " (1962, p. 149). The concept of " t h i n k i n g " is itself beset by ambiguity (Thomson, 1959), but Lawrence Kubie's concept of what goes on in a person's mind at

98

PRELINGUISTIC

DEAFNESS

the initiation of creative thinking comes close to "thinking in pure meani n g s " : " H i s brain is functioning as a communications machine, processing bits of information by scanning, ordering, selecting, etc. This is preconscious processing and it proceeds at extraordinary s p e e d " (1965, p. 74). In Kubie's graphic illustration (figure 4.4), the "symbols shown on the screen represent a sampling of this preconscious activity. Here, our man is relating this sample to reality. His preconscious provides him with myriad bits; he samples these (a conscious activity), tests them, then back they go into the preconscious" (1965, p. 74). The symbols, imagery, feelings, and other subliminal bits that bombard the mind during this preconscious phase of mental activity are not sequentially ordered. They come and go in flashes and bursts of "pure m e a n i n g " unhampered by strictures of language or rules of grammar. In fact, as Thomson observes, " W e often have to struggle hard to find words to capture what our thinking has already g r a s p e d " (1959, p. 164). Largely eliminated by Ameslan are the struggles to encage what goes on in the mind in rigid rules of English grammar. We may hypothesize that, with this obstacle eliminated, the " s y n t a x " of unadulterated Ameslan is closer to the " s y n t a x " of pure thought than is the syntax of verbal language. If so, there would be no need for articles, pronouns, tenses, or other linguistic clarifications of meaning. Meaning is directly imbedded in thought; and thought in turn is expressed as it flows through the mind. Over and above the influences of learned usage on Ameslan, the ordering of signs would thus be additionally influenced by (a) the signer's emotional investment in his message, and (b) the signer's perception of its impact on the receiver. In this hypothetical frame, investigations of the relationship between "thinking in pure m e a n i n g s " and the expression of such thinking in signs, unhampered by linguistic restraints, offers a fertile area of research into the dynamics of thinking. Obviously, Ameslan has provided scholars with highly complex problems, educators of the deaf with sharp differences of opinion, and numbers of literate deaf persons with the feeling that there is a need to " m a k e it [Ameslan] and the deaf society it represents, more respectable" (Gustason, 1973, p. 89). But as Stokoe (1974, 1975) points out, in accordance with the principles of anthropological linguistics, Ameslan is already a " r e s p e c t a b l e " independent language with its own structure, vocabulary, and " p e r s o n a l i t y " and, like all languages, is the possession and product of the people who fashioned it. The language does not denigrate its creators. Margaret Mead (1977), in fact, suggests that Ameslan could be developed into a worldwide common language. This is a major objective of the World Federation of the Deaf (Magarotto and Vukotic, 1959).

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PRELINGUISTIC DEAFNESS

Methodical Signs In recognition of the language-learning problems associated with the syntactic differences between signed language and the syntax of the verbal mother tongue, several systems have been devised in which manual symbols are used for expressing statements that are the syntactic parallels of their verbal counterparts (Bornstein, 1973; Cokely and Gawlik, 1973; Stack, 1972; Stokoe, 1974, 1975; Caccamise and Drury, 1976). The first approach to syntactically correct signing—a sign for every word of the mother tongue—was termed Methodical Signs. It had its beginnings in the heart and mind of one who referred to himself as "The Teacher of the Deaf and Dumb at Paris," Charles Michel, Abbé de L'Êpée. In the early eighteenth century, moved by the plight of deaf twin sisters, the Abbé considered it "an indispensable obligation" (De l'Êpée, 1860, p. 2) to bring all his exertions to their relief and to the relief of others like them. This he proposed to do by teaching the deaf "to think with order, and to combine their ideas" (1860, p. 2) as well as to "render them capable of perfecting their education themselves, by the perusal of good books" (1860, p. 5). This was a radical departure from the objectives of previous teachers of deaf pupils, such as Wallis of England and Bonet of Spain, as well as of de l'Êpée's contemporaries such as Pereire in France and Heinicke in Germany. Their main objective was to teach the deaf to speak. In preparation for his task, which was to become his life's work, the Abbé scrutinized all available literature on gestural language and on the methods used by other teachers. Of gestural language, especially as used by the uneducated deaf of the period, the Abbé concluded that while it was too meager in signs and substance to meet his objectives, it nevertheless had certain instructional possibilities for teaching concepts. Of speech objectives, the Abbé observed that it is not by the m e r e pronunciation of w o r d s , in any l a n g u a g e , that we are taught their signification: T h e w o r d s door, window, e t c . , e t c . , in our o w n , might h a v e been repeated to us h u n d r e d s of times, in vain; w e should n e v e r h a v e attached an idea to t h e m , had not the object designated by these n a m e s been s h o w n to us at the s a m e time. ( 1860, p. 63)

His plan was to " s h o w " meaning through methodical signs. The plan grew out of the Abbé's belief that "to think with order" and "the perusal of good books" demanded expertise not only in the fluent use of verbal language but more particularly in understanding the concepts represented by the verbal forms; that without such understanding, languagelearning was little more than a parrotlike exercise. The Abbé carried out his beliefs through the sequential use of fingerspelling and signs reinforced by

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writing. He used fingerspelling to teach the verbal components of language; but as each linguistic element was taught, its meaning was immediately demonstrated through methodical signs which the Abbé devised for the purpose. Reading and writing were taught at the same time. A comprehensive description of de l'Êpée's method is recorded in his book The True Method of Educating the Deaf and Dumb; Confirmed by Long Experience, published in French and Latin in 1784 and translated into English in 1860. Some of the section-headings are: "Of Articles, and the Signs corresponding to t h e m , " "Of Nouns Adjective in the Positive, Comparative, Superlative, and Excessive Degrees, and of the Signs corresponding to t h e m , " "Of Substantives formed from Adjectives termed Abstract Qualities, and of the signs agreeing to t h e m , " and so on through all the complexities and subtleties of syntax. On completing their instruction, the Abbé's pupils were able to read, write, and sign in well-ordered language with linguistic accuracy, and, more importantly, with conceptual understanding. The Abbé did teach some speech and lipreading, but for him these were minor considerations. The furor generated by the Abbé's manual departure from the speech tradition has reverberated through the centuries as the "battle of methods." Nevertheless, the demonstrated success of his system was lauded by the French Academy, and the school he founded was eventually taken over by the state. The novelty of the undertaking exciting curiosity, and the public exercises of my pupils attracting notice . . . a continual confluence of persons of all conditions and of every country have been drawn to my lessons. 1 believe there is no part of Europe, with the exception of Turkey, whence strangers have not issued for the express purpose of ascertaining with their own e y e s the reality of these matters. (De L'Êpée, 1860, p. 84)

Among the visitors to de L'Êpée's school was Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet, then a young theological student. In 1815 an association of Hartford residents who were concerned by the lack of educational facilities for deaf children in this country sent Gallaudet to Europe to learn about the methods used by foreign teachers, as preparation for founding a school for the deaf here. Strongly impressed with the " F r e n c h " method, Gallaudet introduced it in the first school for the deaf in this country, the American School for the Deaf, founded in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1817. The next 50 years witnessed a steady increase in the number of American schools for the deaf as well as the emergence of sharp differences of opinion among school heads concerning methods of instruction, with the teaching of speech and by speech gaining growing support (Schunhoff, 1957). As this happened, the sign language was gradually excluded from the instructional

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PRELINGUISTIC

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scene and forbidden in the classroom. It was kept alive through the love of the language by its deaf users, particularly those unable to profit from the speech approach. But without the necessary instruction in signs, departure from de l'Epee's high linguistic standards followed. There evolved an American Sign Language, fashioned by its users, with its "vocabulary" a possible mix and fusion of signs customarily used by the American deaf and of signs imported from France by Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet. Manually Coded English

Despite the American rebuff to the language of signs, de r u p e e ' s vision of grammatical signing did not die. In the hope that the stubborn linguistic deficiencies of the deaf would yield to grammatical signing, it was revived in England by Paget (1954; Paget, Gorman, and Paget, 1969) in their Systematic Sign Language system; and in America by Stack (1972) and Bornstein (1973). Stack's Manual English system is "based primarily on the signed vocabulary of the American Sign Language used with fingerspelling in correct English syntactic and grammatical form, observant of verb tense, use of prepositions, and determiners, plurality and all word endings" (1972, p. iv). Bornstein's Signed English "is designed to cover the needs of the syntax and vocabulary used with the one to six year old child" and "substitutes American Sign Language words for English words without changing the form of the American Language to the form of the English word" (1973, p. 462). In addition to these systems of grammatical signing, several other systems were devised, for which Brasel uses the umbrella term "Siglish" (Brasel, 1974; Caccamise and Drury, 1976). Their common goal was to develop "new sign languages," linguistically patterned on standard English. The best known were: Seeing Essential English or SEE 1 (Anthony, 1971, 1974-1975); Signing Exact English or SEE 2 (Gustason et al., 1975; Gustason, 1973, 1974-1975), and Linguistics of Visual English, LVE or LOVE (Wampler, 1971). Descriptions of the systems can be found in the cited references and current literature. Of SEE 1, Anthony explains, "SEE is an attempt to sign English, to give English, to make signs compatible with the English language as far as possible and as far as is practicable and practical" (1974-1975, p. 8). Gustason echos these sentiments for SEE 2: "English should be signed as it is spoken for the deaf child to have linguistic input that would result in his mastery of English" (1974-1975, p. 11). The following excerpts from Bornstein's expert analyses briefly describe what is involved in operationalizing these systems. "SEE [1] signs actually stand for word forms or parts, i.e., word roots, prefixes, and suffixes. These are used in appropriate combinations to form any desired word" (1973, p.

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454). He continues, "Because SEE treats word components, i.e., roots, prefixes, and suffixes, it uses a very large number of affixes. It has at least 22 adjective suffixes, 10 personal ending suffixes, 40 noun suffixes, and 11 verbal suffixes. . . . SEE 1 also has 35 general prefixes. . . . There are symbols for 43 handshapes, two hand positions, six directions for these hand positions, and a variety of placement explanations. The reader must learn the notations before he can understand how to form a SEE s i g n " (1973, p. 455). (One is reminded of the elaborate notation systems used by early educators for teaching sentence structure.) As a result of this process of sign transformation into English, SEE 1 signs bear little or no resemblance to the original source signs of the American Sign Language. A chief difference between SEE 1 and SEE 2 is the much larger proportion of traditional signs in SEE 2. The difference between the L V E and SEE systems is in the treatment of the word forms. Bornstein explains, "Rather than word root, prefixes, and suffixes, L V E signs are intended to represent morphemes . . . the smallest component of language sound which is m e a n i n g f u l " (1973, p. 460). Further, " L V E represents its sign word with a notation system which . . . consists of the manual alphabet and numbers one through eight, plus seven pages of symbols. The symbols represent 12 other handshapes, six palm directions, three hand directions, 12 positions, five position designations, 32 kinds of movements, and eight movement designations" (1973, pp. 4 6 0 - 6 1 ) . Bornstein observes that L V E sign words bear less resemblance to signs of the American Sign Language than do SEE 1 or 2 sign words. Lack of resemblance between "linguistic" signs and Ameslan signs is the difference between expressing a word and expressing a concept. For example, the " l i n g u i s t i c " sign for " b u t t e r f l y " would be the traditional sign for the word " b u t t e r " plus the sign for the word " f l y . " Adding " f l y " to " b u t t e r " to express " b u t t e r f l y " strikes an Ameslan signer as hilarious. The Ameslan sign expresses the total concept " b u t t e r f l y " and is made by crossing the hands at the wrists, palms facing the chest, thumbs interlocked, and fingers oscillating to convey the form and flutter of a butterfly's wings. Cokely and Gawlik (1973) give another example in the word " g r a v y . " The linguistic sign in SEE 1 is the sign for " g r a v e " plus the letter " y . " T o add " y " to " g r a v e " and come up with " g r a v y " is also hilariously funny to the Ameslan signer. In Ameslan, gravy is signed as the concept "drippingsf r o m - m e a t " and is made by grasping the lower edge of the left hand with the thumb and index finger of the right, and pulling down several times. The language status of the new sign languages occupies an equivocal position in scholarly deliberations because of their composite manufacture out of already existing languages. " A real l a n g u a g e , " reflects George Steiner, "consists of far more than the sum of its words and grammatical

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rules. . . . No printout, no dictionary, no grammar, however exhaustive, are equivalent to a language as it is spoken, dreamt, thought, altered, lived by its native s p e a k e r " (1977, p. 9). A language, in short, is fashioned by its users and their culture, not by linguists. It is also questionable whether the bow to the American Sign Language will endear the new systems to the deaf at large. The late Frederick C. Schreiber, who was in the top ranks of distinguished deaf leaders, stated: " W h i l e the new sign systems that developed are the products of deaf people, they were created by persons whose primary language was English. . . . But they were no linguists, and perhaps their very skills caused a complete disregard for rules upon which any system, be it language or auto mechanics, must be b a s e d " ( 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 7 5 , p. 5). Schreiber continues with the dismaying facts, "Today in this country there are four major sign languages, and hundreds of people—both professional and nonprofessional—are busily adding to the confusion. . . . What matter that a teacher-training program needs to teach four different versions of sign language in order to be sure its graduates can be employed anywhere in the U . S . , or that a family with a deaf child moving from one part of the country to another will have not only to learn a new system but also to unlearn the old? This is happening. To be precise, it has already h a p p e n e d " ( 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 7 5 , p. 6). It seems that, another divisive battle of methods may be in the making, this time manual versus manual, sign versus sign. Anthony of SEE 1 finds great benefit in this, and offers the thought that this "havering and palavering . . . is all to the g o o d " ( 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 7 5 , p. 8). The reason? " T h e more the public sees of signs, no matter the system, the less of a novelty will signs b e " ( 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 7 5 , p. 8). Surely greater rewards than this are due deaf children who are experimental pawns in the new sign systems.

Interpreters and Interpreted Language Bridging the linguistic gap between the deaf community and the hearing world is a unique group of communication mediators known as interpreters for the deaf. Until fairly recently, persons who interpreted for the deaf in most countries were generally volunteers who took the time to perform the service. They included children of deaf parents, religious workers, teachers of the deaf, and friends and relatives who were familiar with the language of signs. Rarely were they paid for their services. Steady jobs were unheard of. The only training available was offered by a handful of dedicated teachers of manual communication. In this general no-status picture, an important breakthrough was made in Russia in the 1950s. Spearheaded by the All Russian Society of the Deaf, procedures were initiated to systematize and professionalize interpreting.

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Standards of competence were established, training was instituted, and jobs were made available (Geylman, 1957). In this country, the breakthrough occurred in 1964 at the Ball State Teachers College Workshop on Interpreting for the Deaf (J. M . Smith, 1964). The thrust came mainly from the unprecedented expansion of services for the deaf. In response to the related need for more interpreters, the Ball Workshop moved to establish a National Registry of Professional Interpreters and Translators for the Deaf. The purpose was " t o promote the recruitment and training of an adequate supply of interpreters for the deaf, skilled in both manual and oral interpretation, and to maintain a list of qualified p e r s o n s " (J. M . Smith, 1964, p. 3). The registry's first task was to clarify the functions of "interpreters and translators" and to specify the qualifications of the "qualified p e r s o n s " mentioned in the statement of purpose. A review of the literature on professional interpreting shows the following distinction between interpreters and translators. Interpreters deal mainly with oral verbatim reporting; they repeat in one language what a speaker is saying in another. They can do this in time with the speaker, as in simultaneous interpreting, or can wait until the speaker has completed a statement before proceeding, as in consecutive interpreting. Translators, on the other hand, are essentially writers whose main concern is with attaining meticulous equivalence in meaning between different languages. They are free to use whatever words they need and take all the time they require within reason, to attain this equivalence. This distinction is not as finely drawn in interpreting for the deaf. As a rule, verbatim interpreting is used with the smallest segment of the deaf population—people with high linguistic attainments who do not want to miss a word of what the speaker says. But with most of the deaf, and particularly with those at low linguistic levels, interpreters function as translator and interpreter rolled into one. Their main concern is to convey meanings. To do this, they must make a rapid mental translation of a sender's statement into its basic meaning and then convey the meaning to the receiver in whatever communicative mode and concept level is best understood. A major skill of such interpreters is their ability, as Sussman would say, to "think d e a f . " A common misconception is that anyone who knows the sign language can interpret for the deaf. This is not so. Interpreting, in any language, is one of the most demanding professions, as can be inferred from the following list of personal qualifications gleaned from Hendry (1969) and other sources in the profession: 1. Stamina: independence of spirit. A person who finds the way to link the people he is serving with a minimum of fuss and fluster; who is able to hold the reins no matter how rough the going becomes; who though caught

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in a torrent of words, some of which seem to make no sense at all, refuses to panic. 2. Empathy. A person who possesses the art of "becoming" the personalities behind the statements he is interpreting and who is able to project their attitudes as well as their statements; who is able to quickly get the " f e e l " of speaker and receiver. 3. Adaptability. A person who is able to adjust to new and to unexpected situations, settings, ideas, and people with grace and flexibility while at the same time preserving his own identity and function. 4. Broad interests. A person who is interested in world events and people; who enjoys bringing people together in friendly relations; who derives satisfaction from serving as a link between different mentalities, cultures, and social systems. 5. Outgoing personality. A person who is more interested in others than in his own thoughts and feelings; a good listener as well as a good mixer; sensitive to his surroundings and to the feelings and attitudes of others; respected by others. 6. Natural bent for languages and communication. A person who enjoys communicating and does it well; who is language oriented to the point of continually seeking ways of perfecting himself in the languages of his expertise. 7. Quickness of mind, retentive memory. A person who is able to "think on his feet"; who does not get lost in the outpouring of words he is to interpret but is able to hold them in memory; who possesses the talent for immediate understanding. Over and above these personal attributes are the technical competencies demanded of interpreters (see Appendix D). For those serving the manualdeaf, technical competencies include but are not limited to: (a) a high level of expertise in sending and receiving manually coded messages and in reverse interpretation; (b) an above-average level of linguistic expertise; (c) deep familiarity with the broad range and wide variety of life experiences and outcomes in the deaf population; and (d) a good educational background and scope of knowledge. Further, when interpreting takes place in special settings, such as legal, medical, psychiatric, or rehabilitation, the interpreter must be conversant with the technical language of the given setting. Finally, in certain situations, as in scholarly lectures and professional conferences, good hearing is important; in others, particularly in dealing with deaf individuals of low literacy, deaf persons can make superb interpreters when trained for the job, as can hearing persons who have been raised bilingually by deaf parents. Obviously, an interpreter for the deaf needs a great deal more than the ability to sign.

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Interpreters are also available for the oral deaf who may be unfamiliar with signed language (Northcott, 1979). Oral interpreting is not "interpreti n g " in the customary sense, i.e., from one language or language form to another. The oral interpreter repeats a speaker's statement but in clear lip movements and without voice while standing about 4 to 6 feet from the receivers. This sounds like a simple enough procedure, but it is harder than it appears. The interpreter must keep pace with the speaker although, of necessity, " o n e word b e h i n d . " My hard-of-hearing friends tell of oral interpreters who for one or another reason get far behind a speaker, and then try to make up for it in their own words while at the same time trying to catch up with the speaker's flow of discourse. The result can be a frustrating jumble for the receivers. As a rule, a special section of a lecture hall is reserved for persons requiring oral interpreters. The deaf recipient of interpreted communication receives the messages second-hand, as it were; and their content is only as accurate as the interpreted language permits it to be. When the language is a "faithful e c h o " (Ekvall, 1960), then it has served its prime communicative function. But when interpreted language is ambiguous, distorted, or confusing, it simply adds to the communicative obstacles that bedevil the deaf. Unfortunately, not many receivers of interpreted messages are in a position to check for accuracy. They can only hope. Compounding the problem of interpreting for the deaf is a critical shortage of expert interpreters, at a time when the demand for interpreters has increased markedly because of state mandates that deaf people must be provided with interpreters whenever their civil rights are involved (Dicker, 1976; Du Bow, 1979). In consequence, the need is filled by numbers of less than qualified interpreters, transmitting less than adequately interpreted messages. Hope for improvement in the situation lies with the many interpreter training programs that are springing up throughout the country, and in the leadership of the Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf, which maintains a national office and provides information on request regarding interpreting services, training programs, and qualified interpreters (Caccamise, Stangarone, and Caccamise, 1978; Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf, 1978).

Summary Perhaps a good way to bring home the message of this chapter is to count the ways born-deaf children would have to learn every word they know, in partial preparation for full and free communication with both deaf and hearing society. As an example we use the word " m o t h e r . " The child must:

108 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

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Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn Learn

the concept " m o t h e r . " to speak the word " m o t h e r . " to lipread " m o t h e r . " the sound " m o t h e r " through the hearing aid. the printed word " m o t h e r . " the written word " m o t h e r . " to spell " m o t h e r . " to write " m o t h e r . " tofingerspell " m o t h e r . " to read-back thefingerspelled word " m o t h e r . " to sign " m o t h e r " in the American Sign Language. to read-back " m o t h e r " in the American Sign Language. to sign " m o t h e r " in the Siglish systems. to read-back " m o t h e r " as signed in the Siglish systems.

Accompanying this word-learning feat is the even more taxing one of learning the syntax of English as well as that of the American Sign Language. And this is not the end. Full communicative expertise also requires an understanding of the semantics of the nonverbal languages of social encounter—those characteristic of deaf society as well as those commonly used by the hearing; they are not always the same (Schiff and Thayer, 1974). Congenitally and prelinguistically deaf persons who have mastered this tremendous communicative load, and there are those who have, are awesome human beings. Unfortunately, almost no research has been conducted to find out what combination of abilities, talents, and life circumstances has gone into their making. Many of them have weathered the same instructional experiences as their communicatively deficient peers. And yet they have come out whole. Why? There are opinions on the subject, but no definitive answers. All that is certain is that they are the "exceptional d e a f " (Bowe and Sternberg, 1973; Crammatte, 1968). There is no doubt that they have something important to contribute to our understanding—if we would only ask. For the "unexceptional" deaf, the deaf at large, another list could be compiled, a depressing list of deficits in all the verbally rooted links to the cultural milieu: deficiencies in vocabulary, syntax, reading, speech, lipreading, and fingerspelling. We do not yet know how the so-called Siglish systems will affect the picture, but Gustason's comment that "the variety of sign language modes being taught is wreaking havoc in sign language class e s " (1973, p. 89) is not encouraging. It is we the hearing who have created this language environment for the deaf; their linguistic deficits are largely the product of ineffective teaching

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and narrowed understanding. What we have created brings to mind the biblical Tower of Babel in which many languages were spoken but none were understood. The overworked accusing finger has been pointed in many directions. The heaviest blame has fallen on the practice of teaching by speech, and deservedly so. Generally under-recognized in this approach is the determining influence of lipreading. A deaf pupil is lost who lacks this gift but who nevertheless finds himself in a class in which instruction is conducted in speech. It is lipreading rather than speech-learning that is the fundamental problem of the pure-oral method. But time brings hope; and hope now centers on two seemingly reasonable approaches to the teaching of language to deaf children: early auditory training and experiences on the one hand, and multimodal (total) communication on the other. It is likely that a well-conceived and expertly applied combination of the two holds the solution to the linguistic problems of the deaf.

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Heider, F. K. and Heider, G. M. 1940b. An experimental investigation of Iipreading. Psychological Monographs, 52(1): 124-53. Heidinger, V. 1972. An exploratory study of procedures for improving temporal features in the speech of deaf children. Ed.D. diss., Columbia University. Henderson, H. G. 1959. An Introduction to Haiku. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday Anchor Books. Hendry, J. F. 1969. Your Future in Translating and Interpreting. New York: Richards Rosen Press. Hester, M. S. 1964. Manual communication. In Proceedings of the International Congress on Education of the Deaf and the Forty-first Meeting of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf. Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office. Pp. 211-21. Higgins, D. D. 1942. How to Talk to the Deaf. Chicago: J. S. Paluch Co. Hiskey, M. S. 1950. Determining mental competence levels of children with impaired hearing. Volta Review, 52: 430-32. Holm, A. 1972. The Danish mouth-hand system. Teacher of the Deaf, 70: 486-90. Hudgins, C. V. 1936. A study of respiration and speech. Volta Review, 38: 3 4 1 - 4 3 , 373. Hudgins, C. V. 1937. Voice production and breath control in the speech of the deaf. American Annals of the Deaf, 82: 338-63. Hudgins, C. V. 1946. Speech breathing and speech intelligibility. Volta Review, 48: 642-44. Hudson, P. L. 1979. Recommitment to the Fitzgerald Key. American Annals of the Deaf, 124: 397-99. Israel, R. H. 1975. The hearing aid. Volta Review, 77: 21-26. Johnson, E. H. 1948. The ability of pupils in a school for the deaf to understand various methods of communication. American Annals of the Deaf, 93: 194-213, 258-314. Johnson-Laird, P. N. 1974. Experimental psycholinguistics. In M. R. Rosenzweig and L. W. Porter, eds., Annual Review of Psychology. Palo Alto, Calif.: Annual Reviews. Pp. 135-60. Jordan, I. K., Gustason, G., and Rosen, R. 1979. An update on communication trends at programs for the deaf. American Annals of the Deaf, 124: 350-57. Kates, S. L. 1972. Language Development in Deaf and Hearing Adolescents. Northampton, Mass.: Clarke School for the Deaf. Kubie, L. S. 1965. Blocks to creativity. International Science and Technology, June 1965 (No. 42): 6 9 - 7 8 . Laird, C. 1953. The Miracle of Language. New York: World Publishing Co. Larkin, W. D. 1976. The CCR program in speech training: An analysis and approach. In Proceedings of the Forty-eighth Meeting of the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf, Inc. Rochester School for the Deaf, National Technical Institute for the Deaf. Rochester, N.Y. Pp. 3 2 - 4 7 . Lenneberg, E. H. 1964. A biological perspective of language. In E. H. Lenneberg, ed., New Directions in the Study of Language. Cambridge, Mass: M.I.T. Press. Pp. 6 5 - 8 8 . Lenneberg, E. H. 1967. Biological Foundations of Language. New York: John Wiley and Sons.

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Lewis, D. N. 1972. Lipreading skills of hearing impaired children in regular schools. Volta Review, 74: 3 0 3 - 11. Lilly, J. C. 1967. The Mind of the Dolphin: A Nonhuman Intelligence. New York: Doubleday & Co. Ling, D. 1976. Speech and the Hearing Impaired Child: Theory and Practice. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Lloyd, L. L, and Dahle, A. J. 1976. Detection and diagnosis of hearing impairment in the child. In R. Prisina, ed., A Bicentennial Monograph on Hearing Impairments: Trends in the U.S.A. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Pp. 12-23. Lowell, E. L. 1959. Research on speechreading: Some relationships to language development and implications for the classroom teacher. In Report of the Proceedings of the Thirty-ninth Annual Meeting of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf. Pp. 6 8 - 7 3 . Lyons, J., ed. 1970. New Horizons in Linguistics. Baltimore: Penguin Books. McNeill, D. 1966. The capacity for language acquisition. Volta Review, 68: 17-33. Magarotto, C. and Vukotic, D. 1959. First Contribution to the International Dictionary of Sign Language, Conference Terminology. Rome: World Federation of the Deaf. Mandelbaum, D. G., ed. 1956. Edward Sapir: Culture, Language and Personality. Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press. Markides, A. 1970. The speech of deaf and partially-hearing children with special reference to factors affecting intelligibility. British Journal of Disorders of Communication, 5: 126-40. Markwardt, A. H., and Richey, H. G., eds. 1970. Linguistics in School Programs. Chicago: National Society for the Study of Education. Distributed by University of Chicago Press. Marshall, J. C. 1970. The biology of communication in man and animals. In J. Lyons, ed., New Horizons in Linguistics. Baltimore: Penguin Books. Pp. 229-41. Mason, M. K. 1943. A cinematographic technique for testing visual speech comprehension. Journal of Speech Disorders, 8: 271-78. Mead, M. 1977. Unispeak: The need for a universal second language. Deaf Spectrum, 1977 issue: 8 - 9 . (5070 SW Menlo Drive, Beaverton, Oregon 97005.) Miller, G. 1951. Language and Communication. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co. Moores, D. F. 1969. Cued speech: Some practical and theoretical considerations. American Annals of the Deaf, 114: 2 3 - 3 3 . Morkovin, B. V. 1960. Experiment in teaching deaf preschool children in the Soviet Union. Volta Review, 62: 260-68. Morkovin, B. V., and Moore, L. M. 1948- 1949. A Contextual Systematic Approach for Speech Reading. Los Angeles: University of Southern California. (Manual accompanying a training film.) Myklebust, H. R. 1960. The Psychology of Deafness. New York: Grune & Stratton. National Joint Committee on Infant Hearing Screening. 1971. Policy statement issued jointly by the American Speech and Hearing Association, American Academy of Ophthalmology and Otorhinolaryngology, and the American Academy of Pediatrics.

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National Joint Committee on Infant Hearing Screening. 1973. Supplementary statement re: Infant hearing screening, issued jointly by the American Speech and Hearing Association, American Academy of Ophthalmology and Otorhinolaryngology, and the American Academy of Pediatrics. Nelson, M . S . 1949. The evolutionary process of methods of teaching language to the deaf with a survey of methods. American Annals of the Deaf, 94: Pt. 1, 2 3 0 - 8 6 ; Pt. II, 3 5 4 - 9 6 ; Pt. III. 4 9 1 - 5 1 1 . N e w , M . C. 1940. Speech for the young deaf child. Volta Review, 42: 5 9 2 - 9 9 . N e w , M. C . 1949. Speech in our schools for the deaf. Volta Review, 51: 6 1 - 6 4 . N e w , M. C. 1954. The deaf child's speech vocabulary. Volta Review, 56: 1 0 5 - 8 . Newsounds. 1977. 1 9 7 7 - 7 8 conferences throughout the nation aim for improved teaching methods. Vol. 2, No. 10. (Newsletter, Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf.) Neyhus, A. I. 1969. Speechreading Failure in Deaf Children, Washington, D . C . : Office of Education, Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. P. 169. Nickerson, R. S. 1975. Characteristics of the speech of deaf persons. Volta Review, 77: 3 4 2 - 6 2 . Niemann, S. L. 1972. Listen! An acoupedic program. Volta Review, 74: 8 5 - 9 0 . Nitchie, E. B. 1930. Lip-reading Principles and Practice. New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co. Northcott, W. 1979. Guidelines for the preparation of oral interpreters: Support specialists for hearing-impaired individuals. Volta Review, 81: 1 3 5 - 4 5 . O ' N e i l l , J. J . , and Davidson, J. L. 1956. Relationship between lipreading and five psychological factors. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 21: 4 7 8 - 8 1 . O ' N e i l l , J. J . , and Oyer, H. J. 1961. Visual Communication for the Hard of Hearing. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Paget, R. n.d. The New Sign Language: Notes for Teachers. London: Phonetics Department, University College. Paget, R. 1954. Preface to K. W . Hodgson, The Deaf and Their Problems. York: Philosophical Library. Pp. ix-xvii.

New

Paget, R., Gorman, P., and Paget, C. 1969. A Systematic Sign Language. London. Peck, A. W . , Samuelson, E. E . , and Lehman, A. 1926. Ears and the Man: Studies in Social Work for the Deafened. Philadelphia: F. A. Davis Co. 1949. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co. Pei, M . The Story of Language. Peterson, G. E. 1962. Technological frontiers in communication. Volta Review, 64: 369-74. Pickett, J. M . 1976. Speech-processing aids: Some research problems. In R. Frisina, e d . , A Bicentennial Monograph on Hearing Impairments: Trends in the U.S.A. Washington, D . C . : Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Pp. 82-87. Pintner, R. 1929. Speechreading and speechreading tests for the deaf. Journal Applied Psychology, 13: 2 2 0 - 2 5 .

of

Pollack, D. 1964. Acoupedics: A uni-sensory approach. Volta Review, 66: 4 0 0 - 4 0 9 . Pollack, D. 1970. Educational Audiology for the Limited Hearing Infant. Springfield, III.: Charles C. T h o m a s . Popelka, G. R., and Erber, N. P. 1971. Gestures and visual speech reception. American Annals of the Deaf, 116: 4 3 4 - 3 6 .

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Prall, J. 1957. Lipreading and hearing aids combine for better comprehension. Volta Review, 59: 6 4 - 6 5 . Pronovost, W. L. 1978. Programs in action: Speech-processing aids for the deaf: International research. Volta Review, 80: 4 1 - 4 5 . Quigley, S. P. 1969. The Influence of Fingerspelling on the Development of Language, Communication, and Educational Achievement in Deaf Children. Urbana, 111.: Institute for Research on Exceptional Children. Quigley, S. P., Power, D. J., and Steinkamp, M. W. 1977. The language structure of deaf children. Volta Review, 79: 7 3 - 8 4 . Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf. 1978. American Annals of the Deaf, 123: 284-86. Reid, G. W. 1947. A preliminary investigation of the testing of lipreading achievement. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 12: 7 7 - 8 2 . Risberg, A. 1971. A critical review of work on speech analyzing hearing aids. Volta Review, 73: 23-32, 3 3 - 3 5 . Robson, E. M. 1959. The Orchestra of the Language. New York: Thomas Yoseloff. Roche, T. F., Sheehan, P., Lydia, M., Walsh, J., and Macairt, J. 1971. A study of handicaps and their effect on lipreading among rubella-deaf girls. Developmental Medicine and Child Neurology, 13: 497-507. Rosenthal, R. 1975. The Hearing Loss Handbook. New York: St. Martin's Press. Ross, M. 1976. Verbal communication: The state of the art. Volta Review, 78: 324-28. Ross, M., and Calvert, D. R. 1977. Guidelines for audiology programs in educational settings for hearing-impaired children. Volta Review, 79: 153-61. Russell, W. K., Quigley, S. P., and Power, D. J. 1976. Linguistics and Deaf Children. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Sanders, J. W., and Coscarelli, J. E. 1970. The relationship of visual synthesis skill to lipreading. American Annals of the Deaf, 115: 23-26. Sapir, E. 1921. Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Schiff, W., and Thayer, S. 1974. An eye for an ear? Social perception, nonverbal communication, and deafness. Rehabilitation Psychology, 21: 5 0 - 7 0 . Schlesinger, I. M. 1971. The grammar of sign language and the problem of language universals. In J. Morris, ed., Biological and Social Factors in Psycholinguistics. London: Logos Press. Pp. 98-121. Schmitt, P. J. 1966. Language instruction for the deaf. Volta Review, 68: 85-105. Schreiber, F. C. 1974-1975. New signs . . . and the cons. Gallaudet Today, communication issue, 5 (Winter): 5 - 6 . Schunhoff, H. F. 1957. The Teaching of Speech and by Speech in Public Residential Schools for the Deaf in the United States, 1815-1955. Romney, W.V.: West Virginia School for the Deaf and the Blind. Scouten, E. L. 1964. The place of the Rochester Method in American education of the deaf. In Proceedings of the International Congress on Education of the Deaf and of the Forty-first Meeting of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. Pp. 4 2 9 - 3 2 . Scouten, E. L. 1967. The Rochester Method, an oral multi-sensory approach for instructing prelingually deaf children. American Annals of the Deaf, 112: 50-55.

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Scouten, E. L. 1969. The influence of fingerspelling in early language training of the deaf. Erwin Kugel Lecture, New York Society for the Deaf, New York City, November 1969. Sharp, E. Y. 1972. Relationship of visual closure to speechreading. Exceptional Children, 38: 729-34. Siegenthaler, B. M., and Gruber, V. 1969. Combining vision and audition for speech reception. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 34: 58-60. Simmons, A. A. 1959. Factors related to lipreading. Journal of Speech and Hearing Research, 2: 340-52. Simmons, A. A. 1962. A comparison of the type-token ratio of spoken and written language of deaf children. Volta Review, 64: 4 1 7 - 2 1 . Simmons, A. A. 1968. Content subjects through language. Volta Review, 70: 481-86. Simmons-Martin, A. 1972. The oral/aural procedure: Theoretical basis and rationale. Volta Review, 74: 541-52. Smith, C. R. 1972. Residual hearing and speech production in deaf children. Ph.D. diss., City University of New York. Smith, J. L. 1897. Characteristic errors of pupils. American Annals of the Deaf, 42: 201-10.

Smith, J. M., ed. 1964. Workshop on Interpreting for the Deaf. Muncie, Ind.: Ball State Teachers College. Stack, A., ed. 1972. An Introduction to Manual English. Vancouver, Wash.: Washington State School for the Deaf. Steiner, G. 1977. The Tongues of Men: Part II: A World Language? BBC and WGBH, Boston: WGBH Educational Foundation. NOVA transcript No. 415. Sternberg, M. L. 1981. American Sign Language: A Comprehensive Dictionary. New York: Harper & Row. Stockwell, E. 1952. Visual defects in the deaf child. AM A Archives of Ophthalmology, 48: 4 2 8 - 3 2 . Stokoe, W. C. 1974. Sign Language Studies. The Hague: Mouton. Stokoe, W. C. 1974- 1975. The view from the lab: Two ways to English competence for the deaf. Gallaudet Today, communication issue, 5(2): 31-32. Stokoe, W. C. 1978. Sign Language Structures. Rev. ed. Silver Spring, Md.: Linstock Press. Strong, W. J. 1975. Speech aids for the profoundly/severely hearing impaired: Requirements, overview, and projections. Volta Review, 77: 536-56. Stuckless, E. R., and Pollard, G. 1977. Processing of fingerspelling and print by deaf students. American Annals of the Deaf, 122: 4 7 5 - 7 9 . Tato, J. M., and Arcella, A. I. 1955. The percentage of intelligibility of speech in deaf-mutes. In Proceedings of the Second World Congress of the Deaf. Belgrade: Central Committee of the Yugoslav Federation of the Deaf. Pp. 157-65. Tervoort, B. T. M. 1961: Esoteric symbolism in the communication behavior of young deaf children. American Annals of the Deaf, 106: 4 3 6 - 8 0 . Thomson, R. 1959. The Psychology of Thinking. Baltimore: Penguin Books. Tiffany, R., and Kates, S. 1972. Concept attainment and lipreading ability among deaf adolescents. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 27: 265-74. Trybus, R. J., and Karchmer, M. A. 1977. School achievement scores of hearing

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PRE LINGUISTIC DEAFNESS impaired children: National data on achievement status and growth patterns. American Annals of the Deaf, 122: 6 2 - 6 9 .

Upton, H. W. 1968. Wearable eyeglass speechreading aid. American Deaf, 113: 2 2 2 - 2 9 .

Annals

of the

Utley, J. A. 1946. A test of lipreading ability. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 2: 1 0 9 - 1 6 . Van Uden, A. 1970. A World of Language for Deaf Children. Rotterdam: Rotterdam University Press. Vernon, M . 1972. Mind over mouth: A rationale for "total c o m m u n i c a t i o n , " Volta Review, 74: 5 2 9 - 4 0 . Von Frisch, K . , and Lindauer, M . 1965. The " l a n g u a g e " and orientation of the honeybee. In T. E. McGill, ed., Animal Behavior. New York: Holt, Rinehart, & Winston. Vorce, E. R. 1974. Teaching Speech to Deaf Children. Washington, D . C . : Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Vygotsky, L. S. 1962. Thought and Language. Ed. and trans, by E. Hanfmann and G . Vakar. Cambridge, Mass.: M . l . T . Press. W a m p l e r , D. 1971. Linguistics of Visual English. Santa Rosa, Calif.: (2322 Maher Drive # 3 5 , Santa Rosa, California 95405). W h a t m o u g h , J. 1956. Language: A Modern Synthesis. New York: St. Martin's Press. Wilbur, R. B. 1977. An explanation of deaf children's difficulty with certain syntactic structures of English. Volta Review, 79: 8 5 - 9 2 .

5 Educational Environments: Options and Issues The way a person responds to a situation is often a better clue to what his teaching has been than to what his personality is. Linton, The Cultural Background of Personality

FOR A small deaf child, a first look at the school environment has little meaning. To be sure, the ultimate goals of education are firmly fixed in the hopes of teacher and parent. But the child has no such image in his mind's eye. All he knows is what he sees, that this is a different place, another unknown. He fears he may be banished to this place away from home and family. Again, he knows not why. For some children it takes months before the accustomed routines, activities, and companions of school overcome initial anxieties and the child is ready to accept instruction. Others never fully overcome resentment. In view of the incredibly difficult learnings that lie ahead for a deaf child, the key imperative, particularly at the beginning level, is to make the child want to learn. Latent mental hungers must be rekindled; the push to environmental exploration revived; the longing to communicate, satisfied. One of the great talents of master teachers is their ability to make learning an exciting experience at all age levels, but especially at the youngest level where the foundations are laid. As expressed by Hart and Cory, " w e want [our pupils] to be curious and ingenious explorers, eagerly pursuing interests and knowledges, uncovering facts, evaluating them and using them, and even sometimes deliberately discarding them in favor of fantasy and creativity" (1968, p. 462). The question is how to achieve this goal in the education of deaf children.

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Unresolved Determinants As matters stand the answer to the question involves other questions, beginning with 1. Where to teach: is it or is it not to a deaf child's advantage to be educated along with other deaf children in a school or class specifically designed and staffed for the purpose, and, if not, what is the best possible alternative? 2. When to begin: what is the optimum age at which auditory amplification and instructional practices should commence? 3. How to teach: through what system of instruction is communication, hence education, best effected? 4. What to teach: what curricular content and programming are best suited to the needs of deaf children for personal development and for adaptation to the networks of society? And underlying these is the all-embracing and perhaps most important question: 5. Who is to teach: what combination of personal traits, special abilities and experiences, and level of training qualify a person to teach deaf children? The issue that has generated the hottest and longest debate is how to teach. Better known as the "methods controversy," the differing viewpoints and biases concerning the methods of communication to be used in instruction have commanded the major portion of field interest and energies for centuries. Other issues have been left more or less on the sidelines, except when scattered voices call attention to one or another from time to time or when a debatable innovation makes its appearance. However, the accountability mandated in 1975 by the Education of All Handicapped Children Act, PL 94-142 (U.S., Congress, 1975) and particularly its Individualized Education Program section implies extensive changes from this traditional pattern.

Mandated Planning and Accountability The Education of All Handicapped Children Act was conceived to protect the rights of these children to (1) an education; (2) a free education; (3) an appropriate education; (4) an education conducted in the least restrictive environment; (5) parental challenge through due process; (6) confidentiality; and (7) nondiscriminatory testing. To guard these rights, each state is required to set up procedures whereby handicapped children are, to the maximum appropriate extent, educated with the nonhandicapped except when

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the handicapping condition is such that education in the regular classes cannot be satisfactorily achieved even with the use of supplementary aids and devices. The act became fully operative for handicapped children of ages 3 to 18 years in October 1977 (Buscaglia and Williams, 1979; Martin, 1979). The Individualized Education section of the law requires that education programs be specifically designed for each handicapped child by a team consisting of a representative of the local school agency, the child's teachers, the child's parents or parent surrogates, the child when appropriate, and such other individuals as may be deemed necessary by parents or agency. Also required is a written document of agreement among all team members. The document must include: (1) a statement of the child's present educational level; (2) annual as well as short-term instructional goals; and (3) a statement of the specific educational services to be provided and the extent to which the child will be able to participate in regular educational programs. The broad aim of these mandates is to assure placement for handicapped children in a setting that is least restrictive to educational progress. For further assurance, accountability and due-process procedures are built into the law, whereby parents may challenge placement, evaluation, and instruction through special grievance procedures. The mandate to fit the needs of deaf children into the framework of PL 94-142 has raised vexatious problems for educators. Particularly sensitive issues are the conceptualization of "least restrictive" environment and the associated issue of mainstreaming, which is discussed later (Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf, 1977; Council on Education of the Deaf, 1976; Nix, 1977a,b; PL 94-142 and Deaf Children, 1977). Through what procedures are "restrictive" evaluations to be made? At what point does a "least restrictive environment" for a deaf child of one age level become "restrictive" for the same child when it is older? What are the adjustment hazards for such a child when a midstream change must be made from one type of educational setting to another? A particularly provoking issue is that of psychological assessment, and allied to it is the problem of prediction. Assessment and prediction are the two main pillars on which decision-making rests in fashioning individualized programs and in determining school/class placement. However, the shortage of psychologists who are trained, qualified, or otherwise prepared to evaluate deaf children is a matter of dismal record, as is the lack of tests and other instrumentation on which to base predictive judgments (Levine, 1971, 1974, 1977). As Bruce sums up the situation, "by our own admission, we have far to go in perfecting our ability to predict and prescribe the auditory, educational, and communicative futures of our young charges" (1976, p. 322). For parents, PL 94-142 offers an unprecedented opportunity to participate in educational decision-making and to demand accountability (Kidd, 1977).

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This is a giant step forward from the traditional role of parents, which, as Danahy observes, "has been confined to a peculiar form of participation which has allowed a degree of identification, but hardly the degree of involvement necessary in the education of the handicapped child" (1970, p. 154). However, this new role places a heavy responsibility on parents, the responsibility for recognizing which is the "least restrictive" educational environment for their child among the mass of options, issues, unresolved questions, and technical problems that bedevil the field. As described by Denton (1971), these "educational crises" include: (1) the communication crisis; (2) crisis in family involvement; (3) crisis in morality, in sensitivity to spiritual needs and values; (4) crisis in teacher education; (5) crisis in curriculum; and (6) crisis in educational programs. Parent leaders are keenly aware that, in order to carry out these new responsibilities, parents must function as informed participants in the decisionmaking process (Allen, 1977; Champ-Wilson, 1977; Moses, 1977); and that to do so requires a clear understanding of what is involved in the various options and crises, and of what coping abilities are required of the child. Toward this end, new impetus has been given to parent education programs and parent organizations (Grisham, 1974). But even so, these measures cannot erase the traditional fear of parents of deaf children—the fear of making a wrong decision. If anything, the weight of the new responsibilities may heighten anxiety as parents become more knowledgeable about the variety of education options available, the pros and cons of each, and the divisive issues that plague the field.

Educational

Settings

The historical background of educational settings for deaf children has been comprehensively reviewed in the literature (Bender, 1960; Di Carlo, 1964; Hodgson, 1953), and details concerning current special-education settings and programs in the United States are summarized in the annual Directory Issue of the American Annals of the Deaf. Here we shall briefly scan the options facing parents in deciding which is the best educational setting for their children. The following are among the options open to them. 1. Correspondence courses. The most famous of these, the John Tracy Correspondence Course (Tracy, 1968), is designed to help parents hometeach deaf children in the age range of 2 - 5 years. The course consists of 12 lessons and includes first lessons in sense training, lipreading, language, auditory training, and speech preparation. There is also a pre-correspondence course called "Letters to the Parents of Deaf Babies."

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2. Classes for parents. In line with the thought that education of a deaf child begins with the education of the child's parents, numerous facilities and parent associations offer both formal and informal opportunities for parents to become more knowledgeably involved in the education of their deaf children. 3. Parent-infant programs. As described by Connor (1976), such programs are designed for deaf infants (from birth to 3 years) and involve parent-teacher collaboration in speech, listening, and language activities. "Parent-teacher interactions are classroom-oriented, with the teacher of the deaf intent on having the parent understand and apply the 'lessons' to be practiced with the child at home (see Tracy Clinic curriculum)" (Connor, 1976, p. 9). Parent-infant programs are conducted at various schools for the deaf and at certain speech and hearing centers. Their major emphasis is on the use of residual hearing, language development, and communication, with numerous programs also stressing the socializing aspects of childfamily relations (Northcott, 1972), and increasing numbers focusing on total communication. 4. Demonstration-home programs. Demonstration homes are actual residences set up by a host facility and furnished as ordinary living quarters in which a mother and her deaf child live for specified periods, with the mother carrying out her usual, home-making activities. While the mother is so engaged, a teacher of the deaf is at hand to show her how she can use these activities to develop the child's language and lipreading skills. The bestknown demonstration homes are those conducted by the John Tracy Clinic (Tracy, 1968) and the Bill Wilkerson Hearing and Speech Center (McConnell, 1968). 5. Speech and hearing centers. There are hundreds of speech and hearing (or hearing and speech) centers, throughout the country, that provide diagnostic, clinical, and/or habilitative and rehabilitative services in the area of impaired hearing. (See the Guide to Clinical Services in Speech Pathology and Audiology, published by the American Speech and Hearing Association.) Many of these centers have tutoring and class-instruction programs for hearing-impaired children, and/or conduct parent education and parent-infant programs. 6. Residential schools. Publicly and privately funded residential (boarding) schools grew mainly out of the need to provide special-education services for the comparatively small and geographically scattered population of deaf children who live too far away to use services in metropolitan areas. The advantage claimed by residential schools is that having been founded, designed, and staffed for the exclusive benefit of a deaf pupil population, they are in an exceptional position to serve the children by way of teachers and staff trained for work with the deaf, through familiarity with the special-

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ized instructional techniques and technologies required, and by providing a broad range of special programs, such as career development (Twyman and Ouellette, 1978), and planned extracurricular activities. 7. Day schools. Day schools are public schools established to serve a pupil population of deaf children who live at home. The advantages claimed are that such schools avoid the separation of child from family that occurs with residential placement, support family living, and promote the child's integration with the everyday hearing community while at the same time providing for the special-education needs. 8. Day classes. Day classes are special-education classes for deaf children in regular "hearing" schools. Parents select such placement for various reasons: they oppose child-family separation and special school segregation; they live too far away from a day school; they feel that a day-class setting will eventually enable the child to enter and succeed in a regular class as an integrated pupil. The quality of day-class education varies widely and depends in large measure on teacher qualifications, support services afforded teacher and child, the number and homogeneity of deaf pupils in the class, and the receptiveness of the school and its population to deaf pupils. 9. Integrated programs. The move to identify the "least restrictive" learning environment for deaf pupils has resulted in a number of programs in which deaf pupils are partially integrated into regular school programs. They spend part of the school day in specified classes and/or activities with hearing pupils, and part of the school day, as needs require, in a special-education class for the deaf. 10. Mainstream programs. A complete mainstream program is one in which a deaf pupil "pursues all or a majority of his education within a regular school program with non-handicapped students" (Clark, 1975, p. 2), with some support services to teacher and pupils. Some deaf children begin their education as mainstreamed pupils; others are mainstreamed after special-education foundations are laid. In the writer's experience, mainstreamed deaf children, particularly in the pre- and elementary-school range, rely more or less heavily on outside tutorial assistance. For an uninitiated parent of a first deaf child to make a choice among these 10 options is taxing enough; but the difficulties do not end here. Imbedded in the options are still other options that demand appraisal. Possibly the most sensitive involves the communication philosophy of a given setting. For example, some parent and parent-infant programs espouse the unisensory auditory approach, others the global-auditory, and still others the use of one or another variety of the language of signs. Which is the " r i g h t " choice? At the school level, some schools and classes for deaf pupils are committed to the oral/aural system of instruction, others to a combined sys-

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Environments

tem or to total communication, and a few to the Rochester method or a modification thereof. Again, which is the " r i g h t " choice? And beyond variations

in philosophy

of education

and systems

of instruction there

are

variations in the caliber of a setting. S o m e function at a superior level, others are mediocre, and still others are downright poor. H o w is an uninitiated parent to know? Added to the decision-making burden are field issues such as mainstreaming, total communication, the " S i g l i s h " explosion, to be discussed in the next section, that tend to focus the attention o f many parents on the issue rather than the child. The anguish of decision-making is described as follows by one concerned parent of a deaf child: E a c h family . . . had a different decision to m a k e when it c a m e time to d o s o m e t h i n g about the c h i l d ' s e d u c a t i o n . F o r s o m e there were s c h o o l s or f a c i l i t i e s c l o s e enough to use without a m a j o r disruption o f the f a m i l y . B u t e v e n then there w a s the question o f whether those f a c i l i t i e s w e r e right for you and y o u r c h i l d . S o m e f a m i l i e s d e c i d e d o n the oral m e t h o d o f l e a r n i n g , w h i l e others c h o s e the m a n u a l . F o r s o m e the a n s w e r w a s the residential s c h o o l s and s o m e preferred d a y p r o g r a m s . T h i s d e c i s i o n , o f c o u r s e , did not i n v o l v e only what was best for the child with the h e a r i n g i m p a i r m e n t , but what w a s best for the w h o l e f a m i l y . In s o m e c a s e s the d e c i s i o n i n v o l v e d a m o v e to a different p l a c e , and this added m o r e p r o b l e m s to an already m a j o r d e c i s i o n . In c h o o s i n g b e t w e e n oral and m a n ual c o m m u n i c a t i o n , residential and day c l a s s e s , whether to m o v e to enroll in c l a s s e s or stay h o m e and work through c o r r e s p o n d e n c e , the various p r o f e s s i o n a l p e o p l e c a n point out the advantages and d i s a d v a n t a g e s , but they c a n n o t tell the parents e x a c t l y what to d o . At this p o i n t , the w h o l e decision that will control s o m e o n e e l s e ' s life for years to c o m e is difficult, e s p e c i a l l y w h e n there are s o m a n y c h o i c e s and each s o far r e a c h i n g and d i f f e r e n t . A r o u n d you g o , pro and c o n until finally y o u m a k e the d e c i s i o n , but o c c a s i o n a l l y the n a g g i n g question r e t u r n s — a r e w e doing the right t h i n g ? ( W i l l i a m s , 1 9 7 0 , p. 3 0 5 )

Like parents, many conscientious professional persons frequently wonder, Are we doing the right thing?

Educational Issues Educational

issues are no novelty in the field of the deaf. Some are

ingrained in tradition; others thrive on change and innovation. Occasionally an issue instigates volcanic debates that rock the field. T w o such are reviewed here—mainstreaming and total communication—along with the less spectacular but possibly more important issue of curriculum.

Mainstreaming Although the term " m a i n s t r e a m " is a recent addition to the glossary of " d e a f e d u c a t i o n , " the idea of educating deaf children in the regular schools

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is far from new. It was given an intensive trial over a century ago, and we are told that "Graser and Stephani in Bavaria, Daniel in Wurtemberg, Arrowsmith in England, Blanchet in France, and others, have advocated it warmly, and in some cases so effectively as to make converts of men in authority, and cause the experiment to be fully and fairly t r i e d " (Fay, 1875, p. 116). So enthusiastic, in fact, were the French " c o n v e r t s " and advocates of the period that they formed a sponsoring organization to promote the practice of mainstreaming—the Société pour l'enseignement simultané des sourds-muets et des entendants-parlants. To facilitate the instruction of deaf pupils in regular classes, an ingenious system was devised by M . Augustin Grosselin in the mid-nineteenth century—the phonomimic method (Bourguin, 1871). It was based on a "phonom i m i c " alphabet of 32 gestures, each representing one of the 32 sounds of the French language. These phonetic gesture symbols accompanied spoken language in much the same way that phonetic hand-position symbols accompany speech in the mouth-hand and cued speech systems of more recent vintage. The "full and f a i r " trials given to these mid-nineteenth-century educational innovations yielded disappointing results. Of mainstreaming, we are told that e v e n under the m o s t f a v o r a b l e c i r c u m s t a n c e s , the e x p e r i m e n t has never p r o v e d a success. T e a c h e r s c o u l d not g i v e the f e w d e a f - m u t e children p l a c e d under their c h a r g e the t i m e and attention n e c e s s a r y for imparting e v e n the rudiments o f an e d u c a tion w i t h o u t d o i n g injustice to the hearing children w h o f o r m e d the great majority o f their p u p i l s , and the result has b e e n that the d e a f - m u t e sat in s c h o o l neg l e c t e d and a l o n e , a c q u i r i n g , d o u b t l e s s , s o m e u s e f u l habits o f order, learning the alphabet and perhaps a f e w w o r d s , but g a i n i n g n o t h i n g that c o u l d really b e c a l l e d an e d u c a t i o n or f o r m a preparation for the duties o f life. In m o s t o f the c o u n t r i e s o f E u r o p e the e x p e r i m e n t w a s l o n g a g o a b a n d o n e d ; in France, w h i l e s o m e d e a f - m u t e children are still taught in the p u b l i c s c h o o l s , they are g r o u p e d in c l a s s e s by t h e m s e l v e s , under special t e a c h e r s , s o that there a l s o the experim e n t is virtually a b a n d o n e d . ( F a y , 1 8 7 5 , pp. 116, 117)

Regarding the phonomimic method which had been tested under the auspices of the French Ministry of Public Instruction, we are told: O f the result o f t h e s e t w o e x p e r i m e n t s o n a larger s c a l e than had b e e n attempted b e f o r e , w e are not i n f o r m e d ; but f r o m the s o m e w h a t guarded m a n n e r in w h i c h the c o n d u c t o r s o f the Bulletin

speak of the m e t h o d w e infer that they d o not e s -

t e e m it very h i g h l y , and that it is not n o w practised in the N a t i o n a l Institution. ( F a y , 1 8 7 5 , p.

119)

The unsuccessful outcomes of European experiments in mainstreaming discouraged organized moves toward the practice in this country until the

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latter half of the twentieth century. Of course, there w e r e various instances in which m a i n s t r e a m i n g was carried out with deaf children b e f o r e this t i m e , and p r e s u m a b l y they included successes as well as failures. But these cases were largely u n d o c u m e n t e d . O n e such effort was c o n d u c t e d in the early 1950s with several elementary-level pupils of the Lexington School f o r the Deaf w h o were congenitally hearing-impaired as a result of maternal rubella ( L e v i n e , 1951). All h a d substantial a m o u n t s of residual h e a r i n g , superior mental and scholastic abilities, and exceptional oral c o m m u n i c a t i v e skills. In addition to these a d v a n t a g e s , the criteria f o r m a i n s t r e a m i n g included: the c h i l d r e n ' s emotional stability and s t a m i n a , social patterns and adaptability, and their wishes in the matter of being m a i n s t r e a m e d ; the nature of the transfer hearing school; and the p a r e n t s ' views on the proposed transfer. T h e transfer schools w e r e carefully selected; they included several innovatively inclined private schools interested in trying out the m a i n s t r e a m e x p e r i m e n t and o n e similarly inclined public s c h o o l , all with small classes. Orientative c o n f e r e n c e s w e r e held with the school personnel to explain t h e special needs of hearing-impaired pupils, and with the parents to ascertain their w i s h e s in the matter and their ability to provide e m o t i o n a l and tutorial support. W h e r e all c i r c u m s t a n c e s a p p e a r e d f a v o r a b l e , m a i n s t r e a m i n g w a s carried out and p r o v e d s u c c e s s f u l in every c a s e , as indicated by f o l l o w - u p . 1 h a v e also e n c o u n t e r e d n u m e r o u s mainstream failures over the years w h o , while just as capable as this success g r o u p scholastically, were unable to c o p e with the tensions and burden of work involved in toeing the " h e a r i n g " m a r k , particularly in an indifferent school and with o v e r - a n x i o u s , driving parents. Most if not all such cases have also g o n e u n d o c u m e n t e d . By contrast, the m a i n s t r e a m injunction inherent in P L 9 4 - 1 4 2 p r o d u c e d an a v a l a n c h e of d o c u m e n t e d reaction. While n o quarrel is reported a m o n g educators with the concept of placing a deaf child in an educational e n v i r o n m e n t that o f f e r s the least restrictions to progress and e n r i c h m e n t , opinions d i f f e r c o n c e r n i n g the type of setting that is " l e a s t r e s t r i c t i v e , " particularly during the f o r m a t i v e years of a deaf c h i l d ' s life. S p e a k i n g in behalf of the m a i n s t r e a m trend in education is Ewald B. N y q u i s t , C o m m i s s i o n e r of Education of the State of N e w York: e d u c a t o r s are s h o w i n g an i n c r e a s e d interest in p r o g r a m s that e n c o u r a g e the educ a t i o n of h a n d i c a p p e d and n o n h a n d i c a p p e d children t o g e t h e r . T h e r e are a n u m b e r of r e a s o n s for this p r e f e r e n c e . First, studies d o n e of the e f f e c t i v e n e s s of special class vs. r e g u l a r class p l a c e m e n t h a v e failed to reveal any c o n c l u s i v e r e s u l t s . S e c o n d l y , m a n y e d u c a t o r s are c o n c e r n e d a b o u t civil rights issues in school districts with high e n r o l l m e n t s of h a n d i c a p p e d children in s e p a r a t e facilities. A l s o , the benefits to the h a n d i c a p p e d c h i l d r e n of contact with n o n h a n d i c a p p e d children are i n c r e a s i n g l y e v i d e n t . Studies s h o w d r a m a t i c i m p r o v e m e n t s in c o p i n g a n d in i n t e r p e r s o n a l relationships for children in m a i n s t r e a m e d s e t t i n g s . F i n a l l y , m a n y e d u c a t o r s are c o n v i n c e d that t h e n o n h a n d i c a p p e d child

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m a k e s i m p o r t a n t g a i n s in u n d e r s t a n d i n g a n d v a l u e s b y h a v i n g t h e o p p o r t u n i t y t o g r o w u p w i t h h a n d i c a p p e d c h i l d r e n . E a c h of t h e s e r e a s o n s f o r m a i n s t r e a m i n g u n d e r l i n e s t h e v a l u e s a n d i m p o r t a n c e of t h i s t r e n d in e d u c a t i o n . ( N y q u i s t , n . d . , p. 4)

Much of the evidence noted by Nyquist in support of mainstreaming comes from the field of mental retardation. T h e wisdom of mainstreaming a deaf child is, however, open to challenge. A prominent educator of the deaf, a deaf leader, and the parents of a deaf child speak their doubts on the subject. The educator maintains that t h e t y p i c a l d e a f c h i l d w i t h a t r e m e n d o u s c o m m u n i c a t i o n h a n d i c a p is n o t b e s t p l a c e d in a r e g u l a r c l a s s r o o m . T h e t e a c h e r in t h e r e g u l a r c l a s s r o o m d o e s n o t h a v e t h e c o m p e t e n c i e s t o m e e t t h i s c h i l d ' s n e e d s . P l a c e m e n t of o n e d e a f c h i l d in a c l a s s of h e a r i n g c h i l d r e n p r e c l u d e s h i s r e c e i v i n g t h e p r o p o r t i o n a t e a m o u n t of time he needs even f r o m the best intentioned teacher. (Brill, 1975, p.

180)

The deaf leader warns T h e d e a f ( a n d t h e i r f r i e n d s ) s h o u l d b e a w a r e of t h i s t h r e a t to q u a l i t y a n d m e a n i n g f u l e d u c a t i o n of t h e h e a r i n g i m p a i r e d t h r o u g h t h e " b a c k d o o r " a p p r o a c h of m a i n s t r e a m i n g . If this " p i e in t h e s k y " p h i l o s o p h y b e c o m e s w i d e s p r e a d , b i l l i o n s of d o l l a r s will n e e d t o b e a p p r o p r i a t e d f o r r e h a b i l i t a t i o n a f e w y e a r s h e n c e . ( S m i t h , 1 9 7 4 , p . 2)

The parents of a deaf child sum up their experiences with mainstreaming: In t h e s i t u a t i o n o f " m a i n s t r e a m i n g , " w e a s p a r e n t s f e e l t h e h e a r i n g w o r l d is n o t b e i n g r e a l i s t i c w i t h t h e d e a f . W e a r e e x p e c t i n g t o o m u c h of t h e m , w h e n p l a c i n g t h e m in t h e s a m e e d u c a t i o n a l s i t u a t i o n w i t h a h e a r i n g h a n d i c a p . T h e r e a r e m a n y t i m e s t h e d e a f n e e d e x t r a o r s p e c i a l a t t e n t i o n in t h e i r s c h o o l w o r k a n d s o c i a l l i f e . T h i s t h e r e g u l a r s c h o o l d o e s n ' t h a v e t i m e f o r . T h e c o m p e t i t i o n is v e r y g r e a t w h e n a d e a f p e r s o n is p l a c e d in a l a r g e s c h o o l f o r h e a r i n g c h i l d r e n . . . . " M a i n s t r e a m i n g " d o e s n ' t g i v e t h e d e a f t h e f e e l i n g of " b e i n g i n " like h e a r i n g p e o p l e ( w h o a r e f o r m a i n s t r e a m i n g ) t h i n k it d o e s . ( V a n E n g e n , 1 9 7 7 , p . 3)

The problem facing educators of the deaf is how to meet the special needs and unique problems of deaf children while at the same time bowing to mainstream philosophy. S o m e see partial integration as the way. In certain programs, deaf children occupy a home- or resource-room and are mainstreamed only for special subjects or activities; in others, team teaching is the practice, or special tutoring and support services are provided as required. M c G e e (1976) describes eight different kinds of integration strategies used with hearing-impaired children. In addition, there is a growing trend to integrate deaf pupils by teaching the sign language to their hearing classmates and/or by providing interpreters for class activities (Cooney, 1977). Eloise

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Leitzow, director of deaf services for the Iowa State Department of Health is quoted as saying that "the idea of mainstreaming with an interpreter at younger levels really is exciting and a growing t r e n d " (Cooney, 1977, p. 1). One might look upon this as a kind of reverse integration. But here too there is no agreement among educators of the deaf about the benefits of partial integration. Brill voices an opposing view: Special supportive services in an integrated program generally mean s o m e individualized tutoring. This is not sufficient for the typical prelingual deaf child. He needs a constant total program and he needs to associate with other children in the class w h o are truly his peers if he is going to learn to get along in society. ( 1 9 7 5 , p. 381)

Opinions and program-experiments could be more soundly assessed if based on firm research evidence. But as yet there is no such body of data. Most of the literature consists of articles on programs in action, various mainstream techniques, individualized education programming (e.g., Ling, Ling, and Pilaster, 1977), survey data (e.g., Craig and Salem, 1975; Craig, Salem, and Craig, 1976), plus a wide assortment of views, opinions, and proposals. Noteworthy are several publications covering significant aspects of mainstreaming (Nix, 1976, 1977a; Northcott, 1973; Paul, Turnbull, and Cruikshank, 1979). The few reported studies are what Reich, Hambleton, and Houldin (1977) would probably call the " s n a p s h o t " variety as opposed to the badly needed longitudinal studies. Some of the " s n a p s h o t s " show deaf mainstreamed children able to keep up scholastically with their hearing classmates (Kennedy et al., 1976; Reich, Hambleton, and Houldin, 1977; Rister, 1975; van den Horst, 1971); others show a failure to keep pace (Fisher, 1971; Peckham, Sheridan, and Butler, 1972). A number of studies suggest that the pressures of mainstreaming adversely affect emotional adjustment (Craig, 1965; Reich, Hambleton, and Houldin, 1977; Shears and Jensema, 1969; van den Horst, 1971). Ross (1978) in particular deplores the lack of attention paid to the personal/social implications of mainstreaming. In short, the philosophy of mainstreaming deaf children is going through another experimental trial more than a century after its initial test. As yet, the practice is still at the "unresolved i s s u e " stage. But even so, certain understandings and clarifications are gradually emerging. A parent who has coped with the mainstream problem tells about some of the determinants he has observed: w e have learned that s u c c e s s is dependent upon receptive and supportive professionals, committed and involved parents, and, a b o v e all, fully prepared children.

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W e learned the necessity of constant monitoring of our c h i l d r e n ' s p l a c e m e n t . W e learned the need for proper preparation of both the teacher and the other students w h e n a deaf child is to b e part of a class. A n d most important of all, we learned that the c h i l d — n o t the professional or the p a r e n t s — i s probably t h e best j u d g e of whether an educational situation is providing successful social living. Thus, we learned to rely on the children's signals. T h e r e is no d o u b t that a child m u s t be emotionally ready for m a i n s t r e a m i n g . ( M e l t z e r , 1978, p p . 1 1 0 - 1 1 ) T h e p r o b l e m is h o w t o p r e p a r e a c h i l d e m o t i o n a l l y f o r s u c h p e r s o n a l a n d s o c i a l p r o b l e m s o f m a i n s t r e a m i n g as t h o s e reported b y p a r e n t s t o G r e e n b e r g and Doolittle (1977):

N o matter which kind of integration was m e n t i o n e d , both deaf children and their parents contradicted the g l o w i n g h o p e of theoreticians and the picture presented so c o m p e l l i n g l y on the recent public-television special " I n c l u d i n g M e . " . . . T h e picture w e got f r o m parents was o n e of consistent loneliness, isolation and social loss: " I f they c a n , they find other deaf kids and stay with t h e m . " " T h e others d o n ' t tease them [the deaf students], they j u s t ignore them." . . . A f t e r s c h o o l , the loneliness of the day only deepens: " O h , y e s , o n the s u r f a c e there is c o m m u n i c a t i o n , a greeting w h e n h e c o m e s i n — a sign or t w o that the kids learned or picked u p f r o m h i m . It i s n ' t e n o u g h for real social contact; it's strictly a token thing. H e ' s a c u r i o s i t y . " " N o o n e u n d e r s t a n d s her speech. S h e is continually f r u s t r a t e d . " " T h e kids h a v e ' f r i e n d s ' f r o m 8 to 4 , " a teacher says. " A f t e r that they sit at h o m e a l o n e . " ( G r e e n b e r g and Doolittle, 1977, p p . 8 0 , 82)

T h e s e s t a t e m e n t s recall t h e f a i l u r e o f t h e n i n e t e e n t h - c e n t u r y e x p e r i m e n t in m a i n s t r e a m i n g . Y e t there are s o m e r e m a r k a b l e s u c c e s s e s t o o . W i t h c o m p e l l i n g a r g u m e n t s o n b o t h s i d e s o f the i s s u e , a g a i n p a r e n t s ask: W h a t i s the right c h o i c e f o r m y c h i l d ? Total

Communication

In T o t a l C o m m u n i c a t i o n as in m a i n s t r e a m i n g , t h e roots e x t e n d w e l l b a c k i n t o t h e p r e v i o u s c e n t u r y . A t that t i m e , total c o m m u n i c a t i o n w a s n o t the s e e t h i n g i s s u e it later b e c a m e . N o r w a s it c a l l e d " t o t a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n . " In f a c t , it h a d n o s p e c i a l n a m e but w a s c l a s s i f i e d as o n e o f the m a n y v a r i a t i o n s o f t h e C o m b i n e d S y s t e m , t h e o n e in w h i c h " T h e s i g n l a n g u a g e , t h e m a n u a l a l p h a b e t , w r i t i n g , a r t i c u l a t i o n , a n d s p e e c h r e a d i n g are all u s e d a s m e a n s o f i n s t r u c t i o n b y the s a m e t e a c h e r s w i t h t h e s a m e p u p i l s " ( F a y , 1 8 8 9 , p . 6 8 ) . T h e r a t i o n a l e f o r u s i n g t h e " t o t a l " a p p r o a c h t h e r e f o r e f o l l o w e d that o f the combined system, namely:

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A r t i c u l a t i o n and s p e e c h - r e a d i n g are r e g a r d e d as very i m p o r t a n t , but m e n t a l d e v e l o p m e n t a n d t h e a c q u i s i t i o n of l a n g u a g e are r e g a r d e d as still m o r e i m p o r t a n t . It is b e l i e v e d that in m a n y cases m e n t a l d e v e l o p m e n t and the a c q u i s i t i o n of lang u a g e c a n be better attained by s o m e o t h e r m e t h o d t h a n t h e O r a l , a n d , so far as c i r c u m s t a n c e s p e r m i t , such m e t h o d is c h o s e n for each pupil as s e e m s best a d a p t e d to his i n d i v i d u a l c a s e . ( F a y , 1889, pp. 6 5 - 6 6 )

However, side by side with this statement was a growing conviction among educators of the period that strong efforts should be made to teach every deaf schoolchild how to speak and read the lips (Schunhoff, 1957, p. 28). So strong was the belief that an advocacy organization, The American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, was founded in 1890. Largely through its efforts, the percentage of pupils being taught speech in schools for the deaf jumped from 27.2 in 1884 to 63 in 1900. Eventually instruction included not only the teaching of speech but teaching through speech; a 1954-1955 survey of the 72 public residential schools for the deaf in the country showed that 55.9 percent of the 62 responding schools were conducting all instruction through speech, 38.6 percent used speech all or part of the time, plus some fingerspelling and signs, and only 5.5 percent conducted programs of " n o s p e e c h " (Schunhoff, 1957, p. 79). In the course of time, it became increasingly evident that the growth in speech statistics was not matched by growth in speech intelligibility. Nor was it matched by growth in language acquisition or in level of scholastic achievement. The deaf pupil population proved deficient in all these areas. Speech proponents now shifted the emphasis from " m o r e " speech to "bett e r " speech, while those concerned less with speech than with scholastic attainment and social development voiced increasingly outspoken denunciations of the time consumed through instruction by speech at the expense of "mental development and the acquisition of l a n g u a g e . " Matters reached a climax with the Babbidge indictment of the education of the deaf (Education of the Deaf, 1965). More and more concerned professionals held that education's failures were due to the strictures of teaching by speech (Vernon, 1968). They demanded that manual methods, in particular the outlawed language of signs, be included in the instruction of deaf pupils. Their stand was supported by the results of a number of studies comparing deaf children reared in the sign language through having deaf parents, with deaf children of hearing parents. The studies included: comparison of the educational achievement of deaf children of deaf parents with that of deaf children of hearing parents (Stevenson, 1965); the influence of early manual communication on linguistic development (Stuckless and Birch, 1966); comparison of deaf children of deaf parents with deaf children of hearing parents in intellectual, social, and communicative functioning (Meadow, 1968);

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comparison of intelligence quotients of deaf children of deaf parents with those of deaf children of hearing parents (Brill, 1969); the influence of fingerspelling on language, communication, and educational achievements (Quigley, 1969); comparison of the educational achievements of deaf children of deaf parents with those of deaf children of hearing parents (Vernon and Koh, 1970); the effects ort educational achievement of oral preschool education, early manual communication, and no preschool education but hearing parents (Vernon and Koh, 1971); and a series investigating the influence of early manual communication on achievement, communication, and adjustment (Schlesinger and Meadow, 1972). The overall finding of these studies indicated the general superiority of deaf children who had been exposed to early manual communication. The studies did not go unchallenged. Conscientious reviews by Owrid (1971) and by Nix (1975) disclosed various procedural weaknesses. Quigley (1969) pointed out that in several studies (Meadow, 1968; Quigley, 1969; Stuckless and Birch, 1966) the differences obtained between the groups "were not large even when statistically significant," while Levine (1976) made a similar observation in regard to the Brill (1969) study. Finally, Messerly and Aram report the results of their investigation of hearing-impaired (HI) students, "in which HI students of hearing parents were superior to a group of HI students of HI p a r e n t s " (1980, p. 26). There is, however, a noticeable scarcity of research in support of oral education. Its success is documented in studies by Lane and Baker (1974) and Lane (1976), and Jensema (1975) provides some support in a review of the exceptional achievements of members of the Oral Deaf Adults Section (ODAS) of the Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf, nearly half of whom received their education in oral schools for the deaf. Much of the justification for oralism takes the form of position papers rather than research; and in view of education's failures with the deaf under the oral system, these do not offer convincing rebuttal to the sign language studies, certainly not enough to slacken the sign language momentum. As the " m a n u a l " momentum increased, the need for a more systematized thrust soon became evident. The syntactic deficiencies of the deaf had to be tackled, and the benefits of other communicative modes had to be woven into the evolving pattern of manual instruction. In answer to the syntactic problem, sign-coded straight language systems were devised, as discussed in chapter 4; and in answer to the instructional challenge, there developed the philosophy of total communication (Garretson, 1976). T h e terms "total c o m m u n i c a t i o n " and "total a p p r o a c h " are credited to Roy K. Holcomb, himself a deaf person and supervisor of programs for the hearing impaired. Holcomb describes the terms as indicating a philosophy, not a method:

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T h e Total Approach is using everything and anything that will help the children here and n o w . A m o n g the many factors which make up the Total Approach are the parents, the hearing children, the c o m m u n i t y , extra-curricular activities, the curriculum, the teacher and Total Communication. . . . While all things in the Total Approach are vital, Total Communication is basic. ( 1 9 7 2 , pp. 5 2 3 - 2 4 )

In keeping with this belief, Holcomb describes total communication as "using all means of communication with the children, especially at the earliest possible a g e " (1972, p. 524). These would include speech, lipreading, cued speech, amplified audition, fingerspelling, the various sign language systems, writing, printing, appropriate gestures, and possibly more. When operationalized, total communication has been said to bear a striking resemblance to the Simultaneous Communication method (Caccamise, 1978; Dale, 1974; Lloyd, 1975). However, since all means of communication obviously cannot be rendered "simultaneously," total communication can be conceptualized as calling for an orchestrated rather than a simultaneous input of the various communication modes, such that each contributes to mutual reinforcement and total understanding. I term the system "Multimodal Communication." The concept of total communication was introduced into the educational scene in the late 1960s and quickly captured the interest of educators of the deaf. The spread was rapid. A national survey of schools and classes for the hearing impaired that was conducted less than a decade later, during the 1975-1976 school year, showed that 64% of the 796 responding programs (which represented 82% of the total surveyed) were using some form of total communication (Jordan, Gustason, and Rosen, 1976). A breakdown of the number of classes for each method disclosed: cued speech, 37; oral/aural, 2,370; Rochester method, 155; total communication, 4,619. Accompanying these remarkable statistics was an equally revolutionary shift from previous educational policy—the burgeoning of formal classes in fingerspelling and signs for parents as well as hearing-impaired pupils. The favored signs taught at preschool and elementary levels were reported to be the newer systems of manual English. A 1978 update of communication trends in the schools showed a continuing shift to total communication and manual English sign systems, in particular Signing Exact English (Jordan, Gustason, and Rosen, 1979). This shift in instructional communication was accompanied by one in the focus of research. Whereas the focus had been on comparisons of deaf pupil-groups (those with deaf parents versus those with hearing parents), research attention was now directed to comparisons of the various communication modes. A number of early studies of the "total communication" era are cited in table 5.1. Because they deal with experimental subjects of different ages, instructional backgrounds, and communicative experiences,

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Table 5.1. Efficiency-Comparisons of Communication Modes Investigator

Modes Compared

Most Efficient

Klopping (1972)

speechreading with voice, Rochester method, total communication

total communication

Higgins (1973)

Rochester method, Ameslan, "Siglish"

"Siglish"

White and Stevenson (1975)

total communication, manual com- reading, manual communication munication, oral communication, reading

Luterman (1976)

visual/oral method, auditory/oral method

auditory/oral method

Beckmeyer (1976)

oral, signs, fingerspelling, oral + sign language, oral + fingerspelling (with oral- and manualpreference subjects)

oral (for oral preference) manual (for oral and manual preference) manual (for manual preference)

Moores, Weiss, Goodwin (1974)

Reich and Bick (1976)

sound alone, sound + speechread- simultaneous use of ing, sound + speechreading + residual hearing + fingerspelling, sound + fingerspeechreading + spelling + signs, the printed fingerspelling + word signs investigation of claims in support no superiority of of fingerspelled English superifingerspelling ority noted

Caccamise, Blasdell, Heath-Lang (1977) Caccamise and Blasdell (1977)

live, televised, and rear-screen pro- live presentation jection conditions oral-manual direct simultaneous oral-manual direct communication and oral-manual communication interpreted communication

Murphy and Fleischer (1977)

Ameslan versus Siglish

No difference

and with comparisons of different communication modes, they cannot be expected to point to any definitive disclosure of a "best method"; but there seems to be an undercurrent in favor of manual methods. Alerts were also sounded about various questionable aspects of multimodal communication. For example, Lloyd wants to know "just how one goes about combining the various modes for communication"; this, he remarks, is "not specified" (1975, p. 13). In the same connection, Reich and Bick (1976) report the problem of "mismatch" between fingerspelled items and the corresponding spoken items. A likely explanation for the mismatch is that "many teachers who are starting to use Total Communication . . .

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are woefully i n e p t " (Moores, 1972, p. 8). So too, it may be assumed, are most hearing parents of deaf children, as well as dormitory counselors. It can be further assumed therefore that mismatch is not an uncommon occurrence in .multimodal communications. The question arises: How does a deaf receiver of mismatched communication cope with the problem? In addition, Beckmeyer cautions that although total communication serves the needs of some hearing-impaired persons, "It would be well to consider the possibility that it may actually be reducing communication efficiency for o t h e r s " (1976, p. 572). As Drumm explains, "People not fluent in the silent deaf language are distracted by gestures interfering with perception of speech, and speech efforts distract deaf signers" (1972, p. 565). Individual differences must be taken into account. Alexander reviews other cautions that should be exercised and notes particularly that " w h e n some of these [total communication] programs are laid bare, and the 'label' is not there, it is certain one would be hard pressed to 'label' the program 'total communication' " (1978, p. 21). Alexander stresses that such mislabeling not only defeats the purpose of total communication but also threatens the validity of research. Ling points to the dangers of sensory overload through total communication: " t o t a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n " has still n e v e r b e e n d e f i n e d as a s i m u l t a n e o u s or s u c c e s sive t h i n g or b o t h ; I ' v e b e e n told w h a t is u s e d , but I ' v e not b e e n told or s h o w n a d e q u a t e l y h o w i t ' s u s e d . It a p p e a r s t h o u g h that it's a s i m u l t a n e o u s sort of thing w h e r e i n f o r m a t i o n in n u m e r o u s m o d a l i t i e s is t h r o w n at a child all at the s a m e t i m e . W e h a v e to figure that a w h o l e lot of c h i l d r e n are not g o i n g to be a b l e to p r o c e s s such i n f o r m a t i o n b e c a u s e of s e n s o r y o v e r l o a d . I m y s e l f h a v e d o n e an experiment using fingerspelling, l i p r e a d i n g , and t h e t w o c o m b i n e d ; and the s c o r e s for the t w o c o m b i n e d are not s u p e r i o r to the s c o r e s tor straight fingerspelling a l o n e . ( 1 9 7 2 , p. 560)

Could it be that despite multimodal input, the deaf receiver gains information mainly from one preferred mode while more or less blocking out the others? A member of the Oral Deaf Adults Section of the Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf calls attention to the different brain paths taken by seen and heard communication: T h e s p o k e n l a n g u a g e is n o r m a l l y p e r c e i v e d by ear and the silent d e a f l a n g u a g e by e y e . T h e y are a l s o quite d i f f e r e n t in their v a l u e s of s o u n d a n d sight and their s u m - t o t a l p a t t e r n - o f - t h o u g h t . P l u s , w e h a v e the third l a n g u a g e in t h e r e , lipreading ( s p e e c h r e a d i n g ) , a sight l a n g u a g e w h i c h parallels s p o k e n l a n g u a g e , with c o n s t a n t translation to and f r o m a u d i t o r y and visual values and t e r m s . . . . L a n g u a g e l e a r n i n g by e y e utilizes d i f f e r e n t areas of the brain f r o m t h o s e u s e d

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w h e n an individual learns through auditory m e a n s and w e are just b e g i n n i n g to explore the resulting d i f f e r e n c e s in l a n g u a g e - t h o u g h t p r o c e s s e s . ( D r u m m , 1972, pp. 565, 5 6 8 ) D r u m m a l s o u r g e s that r e s e a r c h b e c o n d u c t e d w i t h o r a l l y s u c c e s s f u l

deaf

a d u l t s t o find o u t h o w t h e y m a n a g e d t o m a k e t h e " h e a r i n g " grade:

I say w e ' v e looked at this p r o b l e m f r o m the w r o n g end of the t e l e s c o p e — f r o m the point of view of school c h i l d r e n — n o t regarding the contributions adult deaf persons can m a k e if located and called u p o n . I suspect that there are m a n y m o r e proficient speakers as deaf as 1 a m , w h o ' v e long a g o slid into the hearing/speaking m a j o r i t y . I challenge you to find these deaf adults, w h o p r o b a b l y d o n ' t consider t h e m s e l v e s deaf but " h a r d of h e a r i n g , " and w h o w o u l d certainly resist being labeled " d e a f , " with its present connotation of incapability, by their peers and e m p l o y e r s . ( 1 9 7 2 , p. 567)

O t h e r p r o b l e m s s t e m m i n g f r o m t h e rapid a n d u n s y s t e m a t i z e d spread o f total c o m m u n i c a t i o n , c o m b i n e d w i t h the n e w s i g n s y s t e m s , are n o t e d in t h e f o l l o w i n g r e s o l u t i o n s u b m i t t e d b y the R e s o l u t i o n s C o m m i t t e e t o the C o n f e r e n c e of E x e c u t i v e s of American

S c h o o l s f o r the D e a f at its f o r t y - e i g h t h

meeting: RESOLUTION NO. 8 (not approved) WHEREAS each p r o g r a m for the deaf utilizing m a n u a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n as an instructional m e d i a appears to be developing within its sphere of influence the n e w m a n u a l signs to meet instructional needs; and WHEREAS, there appears to be little or no c o m m o n ground for the d e v e l o p m e n t or creation of n e w m a n u a l signs to deal with the various linguistic features of c o m m u n i c a t i o n ; and WHEREAS, deaf students of a given g e o g r a p h i c area m a y find it difficult to c o m m u n i c a t e accurately and decisively with those of another g e o g r a p h i c area if the divergent trends of sign d e v e l o p m e n t continue; and WHEREAS those p r o g r a m s for the deaf utilizing total or m a n u a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n find themselves actually teaching m a n u a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n s for the first time; and WHEREAS it w o u l d appear appropriate and beneficial to maintain an u p - t o - d a t e inventory of n e w signs to be disseminated to all p r o g r a m s utilizing them; therefore BE IT THEREFORE RESOLVED that the C o n f e r e n c e of E x e c u t i v e s of A m e r i c a n Schools for the Deaf go on record as supporting the interest of the C o l o r a d o School for the Deaf and Blind and the University of C o l o r a d o in their intent to s u b m i t a request to the U . S . O f f i c e of E d u c a t i o n to call for a meeting of those individuals presently engaged in the d e v e l o p m e n t of systems and a p p r o a c h e s to n e w m a n u a l signs, to the end that s o m e c o m m o n approach and m e t h o d o l o g y be utilized by all to t h e a d v a n t a g e of those individuals w h o rely totally or partially u p o n m a n u a l c o m m u n i c a t i o n . ( P e c k , 1976, p. 278)

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An important, albeit seemingly ignored, point of inquiry in multimodal communication is the question of the equivalence in meaning among statements with similar intent but expressed in different communicative modes. A very interesting series of studies on the subject was conducted by Anderson (1966, 1968) with nondeaf persons, using experimentally equated messages presented through pictorial, aural, and print media. Anderson found that "the results presented demonstrate that statements equated in content and complexity but presented in different media evoke different connotative meanings" (1966, p. 503; italics added). To my knowledge, this question of meaning-equivalence among different communicative modes has not yet been raised in connection with total communication. It should be. A final point is Newman's (1973) observation of the resemblance between failures in the education of the deaf and failures in current bilingual education for non-English-speaking hearing children, which, as Herbert (1977) remarks, seems to be "missing the m a r k " (p. 8). Newman quotes the administrator of one bilingual program as attributing much of its failure to the simultaneous input of the children's first language, second language, and academic concepts. The result is a child "who ends up barely functioning in either language" (Newman, 1973, p. 12). This outcome is in line with Ruesch's psychiatric dictum, "One thing at a t i m e , " for children in the formative years. Applying this to language learning, Ruesch states: "when at the time of his mastery of the basic vocabulary a child is exposed to two language systems . . . t h e impact may be serious enough to retard his language development" (1957, p. 64). Whether this observation has relevance to total communication's multimodal form of instruction remains to be explored. In regard to "first language," Newman expresses the conviction of " m a n y " deaf people that "the failure in the education of the deaf can be traced to the failure to accept manual communication as the deaf people's first language and, on this basis, to designate educational programs for t h e m " (1973, p. 12).

In the midst of all the inquiry and debate sparked by total communication is the unspoken plea of the deaf child. The late Frederick C. Schreiber, himself a deaf person, interprets the child's plea as follows: I need more than anything to be able to understand you and to make you understand me. I need to be able to sit with you and ask you why? T o ask you to help me explore the universe around me. T o understand the d o ' s and don'ts of everyday living. These are hard things to learn—don't make them any harder for me than they already are. Give me the freedom to ask and understand in the easiest way possible—if there is an easy way. Talk to m e , yes, but give me the help that 1 get from signs and finger spelling. Remember, I don't speak or lip read well. . . . Communication is my

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greatest n e e d . G i v e n adequate m e a n s of free and e a s y c o m m u n i c a t i o n I can acquire l a n g u a g e and p o s s i b l e s p e e c h as w e l l . I will also acquire the things I n e e d to k n o w that are not f o r m a l l y taught in s c h o o l and that will help m e to g r o w up to be a well adjusted c i t i z e n , able to handle the d e m a n d s of the world around m e . ( 1 9 6 9 , p. 6).

D r u m m , also a deaf person, places his emphasis differently: m o s t deaf p e r s o n s , m y s e l f , your deaf c h i l d , w h o don't hear s o m e s u p p o s e d l y essential s p e e c h s o u n d s , can learn to feel, v i s u a l i z e , and project s p o k e n l a n g u a g e quite e f f e c t i v e l y as adults. T h i s is e s p e c i a l l y true n o w that early training with hearing aids can stimulate auditory perception e v e n with 100 db. d e a f n e s s . . . . S o what is it that w e want? W e want more o f our deaf children to a c h i e v e succ e s s as adults in a predominantly hearing/speaking world. . . . T h i s w e can d o for our children NOW, to prepare them for the reality o f a l o n g adulthood. Whether they later live in a minority w o r l d , or in the world o f the majority, or both, is up to t h e m — b u t let us at least g i v e deaf children thorough training in the basic terms and n u a n c e s o f the s p o k e n l a n g u a g e o f the majority, s o they will h a v e a wider c h o i c e as adults. ( 1 9 7 2 , pp. 5 6 8 - 6 9 )

Schreiber's child stresses the urgency of the need of all children, whether deaf or hearing, to know "here and n o w " in order to understand and assimilate the realities of the world in pace with maturational imperatives; D r u m m ' s child, the need for training in the "basic terms and nuances of the spoken l a n g u a g e " in preparation for a long period of adulthood in a hearingspeaking world, training that thus far has proved unsuccessful for the large majority of deaf adults. Again, the question facing uninitiated parents charged with decision-making responsibilities is: Which is the right choice? Curriculum: State of the Art Although discussed here under Educational Issues, the status of the curriculum in the education of deaf children has actually aroused little active concern. To call it a " s i d e - i s s u e " would probably be nearer the mark. The reason lies not in the lesser importance of the curriculum, but rather in its overwhelming complexity. The task of designing a flow of studies that will build psychologically viable and culturally compatible human beings out of communicatively isolated small deaf children is herculean enough to intimidate the stoutest heart. In the early days of deaf education, it seemed feasible to model curricula for deaf children along the 3-R lines then used with hearing children. The pioneers had to begin somewhere, and this seemed as good a place as any. However, in the course of time and social change, it became increasingly evident to the regular " h e a r i n g " schools that pupils raised on a 3-R diet were ill-prepared to cope with the wider alphabet of societal demands.

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School administrators began to press for curricular reform. As Dyer (1966) relates, eventually the regular schools were swamped with more devices, strategies, and curricular materials than educational systems were prepared to absorb or evaluate. The reform watchword was for innovation and experimentation, learning through discovery, and a realistic emphasis on what a pupil needs to know, namely, "what kind of world he is living in, how his future in this world may be shaped, and how he can help shape i t " (Panel on Educational Research and Development, 1964, p. 33). Together with these reform moves, there appeared a growing awareness of the need for what Ellis (1972) calls "emotional education in the c l a s s r o o m , " with a strong focus on the feelings that underlie interpersonal relations, on their meanings, their effects on the self and on others, and on their healthy management. A common belief is that emotion is a kind of " n a t u r a l " phenomenon, an entity apart from learning. But Hallowell, quoting Landis (Goodman, 1967), rejects this notion: "Emotional life is modified more rigorously in the growth and education of an individual than perhaps any other variety of human experience" (p. 178); this statement is supported by abundant psychological, psychiatric, and cross-cultural evidence. Thus, argue the reform educators, if emotional patterns are learned, then emotional insights can be taught; and a number of demonstration programs in affective education are now showing the way in regular school settings, beginning as early as the preschool years (Bessell, 1968; Ellis, 1972; Timmerman, 1970). A major purpose of such programs is to free cognitive functioning, as far as possible, from disruptions caused by adverse emotional interference. At about the time that reform recommendations were sweeping through " h e a r i n g " education circles, there appeared the Babbidge Report on the education of deaf children (Education of the Deaf, 1965). Its first sentence read: " T h e American people have no reason to be satisfied with their limited success in educating deaf children and preparing them for full participation in our society" (p. xv). The statement came as no shock to educators of the deaf. They had long been dissatisfied with the state of their art and of the outcomes. In the discussion of responsible factors, the surprising omission in the Report was any mention of the outmoded design, inadequate content, and unsystematized application of curricula in most schools and classes for the deaf. Nor was any recommendation made for a panel of experts in curriculum design to study the problem, to deliberate on what must be imparted to deaf children both cognitively and affectively to bring them closer to the multiple realities of life. However, curricular inadequacies in the education of deaf children had not gone unnoticed. As early as 1957, Streng sought to raise the level of field awareness concerning these inadequacies with a survey of 75 public

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and private residential schools; she found that in most schools the curriculum was just as subject-centered as it had been 100 years before, "with the emotional and social aspects of the learner's development . . . minimized or neglected" (1957, p. 294; italics added). A decade later, Behrens and Meidegeier noted the same pattern: "A realistic content curriculum is in itself a rare item in most schools for hearing-impaired children" (1968, p. 412); and Gough exhorted "the various groups that aspire to a better education for the deaf [that] the time was never more propitious for joining forces to forge new curricula, breaking the chains that have fettered the deaf too long" (1968, p. 459). Still more recently, Bowe reminded educators that "work on the question of what to teach, in curriculum and content, appears to be lagging behind that in communication methodologies" (1974, p. 11). This lag has always hampered curricular reform in schools for the deaf. As Leitman (1968) remarks, forces are at work in the schools that "unintentionally limit the scope of educational experience of the deaf child." He explains: "The countless hours spent by the deaf child sitting in groups and drilling on language and speech skills tend to foster a kind of passivity in the child. The passivity runs counter to the need of a child to explore the world." From the deaf pupil's point of view, however, there is little incentive to explore a world that is hemmed in by fixed routines, compartmentalized subjects, predigested information, unexpressed feelings, and incessant correction—the need to explore indeed exists, but not the appropriate environment. As Rosenstein states, "For curriculum, the design of environment becomes one of the most pressing tasks of the present. Here the design activity must focus on the creation of a personal space where an individual can seek the new ways of behaving that are necessary to his experience and thus find his relationship with the various aspects of the curriculum a meaningful o n e " (1971, p. 494). In the context of educational reform philosophy, a school's learning environment should represent a microcosm of societal reality; the curriculum should provide the ways and means for acquiring and assimilating the multiple aspects of that reality in order to fit comfortably and knowledgeably within its sociocultural frame. The traditional criterion of a small deaf child's progress—the number of words he knows as compared with his hearing peer—has no place in current special-education thinking. The real test matches experience to experience, not word to word. How many of the experiences necessary for healthy development are provided a deaf child in pace with need, and how do these compare in range and variety with the cognitive and affective experiences that supply the developmental and maturational needs of hearing children? A deaf child's lack of words does not hamper learning through experience. Experiences have their own semantics; and, in fact, the concepts thus acquired

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are a deaf child's strongest motivation for learning the matching words and language. For deaf children, a curriculum based on experiential requirements is "better than any other, because it holds the greatest promise for providing the kinds of experiences consistent with what is known about learning and growth needs of c h i l d r e n " (Streng, 1957, p. 295). This criticism of the curricula to which deaf children are exposed does not mean that educators have been entirely passive about seeking educational reform. To counteract the ingrained priority of method over content, Simmons urges that "teachers first know what they want to teach, then why they want to teach it, before they begin to think of how" (1968, p. 463). One basic problem is a lack of consistency: the " w h a t " to teach varies from school to school and from teacher to teacher, as do both the " w h y " and the " h o w . " Reeves questions "whether any method can flourish in an adverse c l i m a t e " (1977, p. 54); while Streng sums up in the statement, " T h e big issue is not really that of oralism versus manualism, but what is best for what c h i l d " (1967, p. 100). Within their own classrooms, many creative teachers have successfully experimented with experiential learning and discovery techniques (Kopp, 1968). But again, there are wide gaps from school to school and even, as Rosenstein comments, a "wide gap between teachers in the same s c h o o l " (1971, p. 495). Some teachers have ventured into the curricular area (Grammatico and Miller, 1974; Maxwell, 1979), but their efforts have not inspired a systematized total school approach. By and large, innovation in schools for the deaf is represented mainly by educational technology (Symposium on Research and Utilization of Educational Media, 1969, 1974, 1978). The emphasis is still on the " h o w . " Calvert amusingly predicts, " W e will see increasing 'media complexity' with the teacher facing myriad of switches, dials, meters, knobs, and buttons as she operates overhead, opaque, movie, filmstrip, and slide projectors, and plays magnetic tape, records, and videotape" (1970, pp. 17-18). If the focus of all this hard- and soft-ware remains fixed on the " h o w " of teaching, the deaf child will not be much farther along the road to the experiential " w h a t " and " w h y " of curricular enrichment. In all fairness, curricular reform of the extensive type deemed necessary in the education of deaf children is a tremendous undertaking. It cannot be done in isolated bits and pieces: one class here, one group there; a new idea or fad foisted upon a reluctant teacher; a doctoral dissertation; a short-term grant project. Clues may indeed emerge from such approaches, but extensive change demands total immersion, total reorientation, and total involvement. And what school is in a position to lend itself to total reformation even if there were a promising curricular guide to follow, which there is not. Furthermore, where will the funds come from to devise such radically dif-

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DEAFNESS

ferent curricula and support the lengthy research needed for evaluation? Granted an expert panel of specialists, the minimum time required would be at least 10 years. But the usual funding patterns do not allow for anywhere near such lengthy time schedules. A possible solution comes from D. Allen's proposal (1971) for legislation to authorize individual schools to set aside a certain portion of their budgets for the support of experimental schools. As yet, the suggestion is in the dream stage. In the meanwhile, most deaf children remain trapped in obsolete curricular philosophy, outmoded practices, or the curricular patchworks common to many integrated programs. A hearing child in the same position has the advantage of much informal, out-of-school input. But the deaf child is heavily dependent on school. Whereas a hearing child acquires considerable flexibility in thinking, feeling, and doing from the many challenges and confrontations of everyday encounters, the deaf child's " i n f o r m a l " learning is sharply limited. A paramount limitation is in opportunities for independent thinking and for developing mental initiatives and controls. This thinking-limitation was noted and deplored as long ago as 1896 by Putnam in his complaint that deaf children are not trained to think. " T h e child's brain is treated as a receptacle of facts, rules, etc. The pupil religiously fills it daily, and almost as rapidly unloads i t " (1896, p. 268). Putn a m ' s thoughts are echoed in the present by Kopp: " N o student should be permitted to operate only as a follower of directions or as a passive recipient of facts. . . . To be skilled at inducing the learner to think is the fundamental goal of the t e a c h e r " (1972, pp. 270, 272). One of the most passionate advocates of teaching deaf children to think is Hans Furth (1966), who brought thinking directly into the classroom by way of a workbook of Piagetian thinking games, in collaboration with Wachs (Furth and Wachs, 1974). Possibly the least-recognized omission in curricula for deaf children is emotional education. As noted, Streng long ago pointed out that the emotional aspects of a deaf pupil's development were neglected, and Blanton remarked on the singular deficiency of affective vocabulary in "deaf lang u a g e " (Streng, 1957; Blanton, 1968). The seriousness of the implication seems to have escaped general field notice, with the outstanding exception of Joanne G. Schwartzberg, a physician and mother of a deaf child. Schwartzberg (1976) says: we want for our deaf children the same things that we want for our hearing children: to be able to understand, express and control their own feelings, to be able to understand the feelings and expressions of others, not only to tolerate but to be able to reach out and help others in need. We teach these things to our hearing children very casually through daily living experiences. As parents we are sometimes unaware that we are teaching. Our deaf children can share the same daily living experiences, but we, parents and teachers alike, must become

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m o r e c o n s c i o u s of h o w and w h a t w e teach so that o u r deaf c h i l d r e n will be able to d e v e l o p n o r m a l l y . . . . W i t h p i c t u r e s and p a n t o m i m e a n d p a t i e n c e w e c a n b r i d g e t h e c o m m u n i c a t i o n g a p with the p r e v e r b a l very y o u n g deaf child a n d m a k e sure that h e p e r c e i v e s and learns t h e p a t t e r n s and values of h u m a n e m o tions as well as any h e a r i n g child his a g e . (p. 17)

That these recommendations can be successfully carried out through teaching procedures is demonstrated by Schwartzberg herself, combining the use of stick figures and faces with her own sensitive perceptions (1969). The importance of emotional enculturation for deaf children cannot be overstressed. Emotions, as we are told by Freud and other eminent psychiatrists, are rooted in hearing. We do not expect deaf children to fend for themselves in the cognitive area; we dare not in the affective area. To do so would be to endanger healthy psychological development, unhampered cognitive functioning, and healthy adaptations to the feelings and values of the human community. As Schwartzberg points out, "Decreased understanding of an emotional stimulus may lead to both (a) decreased reactions and (b) inappropriate behavior" (1976, p. 15). It is more than likely to lead to emotional immaturity and to the excessive prevalence of emotional disturbance among deaf pupils as reported by Schlesinger and Meadow (1972). In my opinion, a sound curriculum in tune with reality is the best mental health safeguard that can be offered deaf children by the schools, and would in all probability lead to a perceptible decrease in the later need for psychiatric services and mental health clinics.

Summary Children are sent to school to acquire the knowledge, insights, and what Whitehead (1953) calls "the art of utilization of knowledge" for healthy participation in the networks of society. For a school to discharge this responsibility is no simple matter even under the best conditions. To carry it out with children who cannot hear is a highly complex task that has not yet been mastered. As summarized by Denton (1971), there are " c r i s e s " in methods of communication, in family involvement, teacher education, in curriculum, and in educational programs. The options and issues spawned by these crises have produced an educational environment for deaf children that is rent by sharp dissension, untested advocacies, and clashing practices. In the Babbidge committee's judgment, "the American people have no reason to be satisfied with their limited success in educating deaf children" (Education of the Deaf, 1965, p. xv). Failure in educating the deaf is a composite of many failures. Not the least is the failure to relate the content of education to the bio-psychological " h u n g e r s " and needs that underlie normal development, to extrapolate the

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PRELINGUISTIC DEAFNESS

kinds of cognitive and affective experiences that satisfy maturational imperatives, and to use them as framework for a consistent flow of curricular input through all age levels. Instead, the deaf child's developmental needs are parceled into methods and subjects. The child cannot hear; he is supplied with hearing aids and auditory training. He cannot speak; the method is speech therapy. Speech is too slow to meet communicative need; manual methods come to the rescue. Scholastic competencies must be provided; the 3 Rs are called into service. And so on through the school years. When the time comes for pupils to leave school and "go out into the world," the method for many is represented by the well-trodden path to the rehabilitation counselor's office. It is an unhappy commentary on the education of the deaf when habilitation must be followed by rehabilitation. The greatest methods fixation by far is on methods of communication. In the flurry of debate, it has escaped the notice of advocates of all communicative persuasions that the term " m e t h o d , " no matter in what connection it is used, simply indicates a means to an end. It is not an end in itself. In the habilitation of deaf children, methods of communication can be conceived as the utensils—the knife and fork—which the children are taught to use as the means for getting at the substance of education. But given the means, the children must also be provided with educational food, and this is represented by the psycho-educational sustenance and sociocultural experiences of which they are deprived by reason of deafness. No matter how efficiently the knife and fork are used, if there is not enough of this food on the plate, the result is psycho-educational malnutrition. If in addition to lack of sufficient food, the utensils themselves are ineffective, the result is starvation. And this tells much of the story underlying the poor showing of the deaf pupil population. A scan of the state of the educational art indicates that the utensils have generally proved less than adequate; the diets, monotonous; the food sparse, limited in variety, poorly prepared, and even more poorly served. In protest against this methods fixation, J. K. Reeves, editor of the British publication The Teacher of the Deaf, expresses his opinion that "the method of communication to be used in the classroom is not a broad educational matter but rather a peripheral affair which is of secondary or even tertiary importance to major issues" (1977, p. 43). Among the "far more fundamental issues" mentioned by Reeves are: the provision of good teaching, an adequate supply of good teachers, and improved training for teachers. To these admittedly critical essentials, I would add a sound experientially based curriculum and knowledgeable parent participation in the education process.

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References A l e x a n d e r , K. R. 1978. Forgotten aspects of total c o m m u n i c a t i o n . American of the Deaf, 123: 1 8 - 3 0 .

Annals

A l l e n , D. 1971. T h e seven deadly m y t h s of education and h o w they m a n g l e the y o u n g . Psychology Today, 4: 7 0 - 7 2 . A l l e n , J. C . 1977. A challenge to parents. Volta Review,

79: 2 9 7 - 3 0 2 .

A n d e r s o n , J. A . 1966. E q u i v a l e n c e of m e a n i n g a m o n g statements presented through various m e d i a . Communication Review, 14: 4 9 9 - 5 0 5 . A n d e r s o n , J. A. 1968. M o r e on the e q u i v a l e n c e of statements presented in various m e d i a . Communication Review, 16: 2 5 - 3 2 . B a b b i d g e R e p o r t , see Education

of the Deaf,

1965.

B e c k m e y e r , T . 1976. Receptive abilities of h e a r i n g impaired students in a total c o m m u n i c a t i o n setting. American Annals of the Deaf, 121: 5 6 9 - 7 2 . B e h r e n s , T . R . , and M e i d e g e i e r , R. W . 1968. Social studies in the education of deaf children. Volta Review, 70: 4 1 0 - 1 4 . B e n d e r , R. E. 1960. The Conquest of Deafness. Cleveland: Press of W e s t e r n Reserve University. Bessell, H. 1968. T h e content is the m e d i u m : T h e c o n f i d e n c e is t h e m e s s a g e . Psychology Today, January 1968 (reprint). Blanton, R. 1. 1968. L a n g u a g e learning and p e r f o r m a n c e in the deaf. In S. Rosenberg and J. H. K a p l a n , E d s . , Developments in Applied Linguistics, pp. 1 2 1 - 7 6 . N e w York: M a c m i l l a n . B o u r g u i n , L. A . 1871. Manuel complet de la phonomimie. Paris: A l p h o n s e Picard. B o w e , F. 1974. National trends in the education of deaf children. Deaf American, 26: 1 1 - 1 2 . Brill, R. G. 1969. T h e superior l . Q . ' s of deaf children of deaf parents. Palms (reprint). Brill, R. G . 1975. M a i n s t r e a m i n g : F o r m a t or quality? American 120: 3 7 7 - 8 1 . B r u c e , W . T . 1976. T r e n d s in e d u c a t i o n . Volta Review,

Annals

California

of the

Deaf,

78: 3 1 8 - 2 3 .

B u s c a g l i a , L. F . , and W i l l i a m s , E. H . , Eds. 1979. Human Advocacy The Educator's Roles. T h o r o f a r e , N . J . : C h a r l e s B. Slack.

and PL

94-142:

C a c c a m i s e , F . , E d . 1978. Sign language and s i m u l t a n e o u s c o m m u n i c a t i o n : Linguistic, p s y c h o l o g i c a l , and instructional ramifications. American Annals of the Deaf, 123: 7 9 8 - 8 7 7 . C a c c a m i s e , F . , and Blasdell, R. 1977. Reception of sentences u n d e r oral-manual interpreted and s i m u l t a n e o u s test conditions. American Annals of the Deaf, 122: 414-21. C a c c a m i s e , F . , and Blasdell, R . , and H e a t h - L a n g , B. 1977. H e a r i n g - i m p a i r e d pers o n s ' s i m u l t a n e o u s reception of information u n d e r live and t w o visual motion m e d i a conditions. American Annals of the Deaf, 122: 3 3 9 - 4 3 . C a l v e r t , D. R. 1970. T h e deaf child in the seventies. Volta Review,

72: 1 4 - 2 0 .

C h a m p - W i l s o n , A . 1977. Parent advocacy: Being a part of the t e a m . PL 94-142 Deaf Children, Special Issue, Gallaudet Alumni Newsletter, p . 16.

and

C l a r k , G . M . 1975. M a i n s t r e a m i n g for the secondary e d u c a b l e mentally retarded: Is it d e f e n s i b l e ? Focus on Exceptional Children, 7: 2.

146

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Conference of executives of American Schools for the Deaf. 1977. Statement on "least restrictive" placements for deaf students. American Annals of the Deaf, 122: 7 0 - 7 1 . Connor, L. 1976. New directions in infant programs for the deaf. Volta Review, 78: 8-15. Cooney, P. 1977. A new deal for deaf children. lowans at Home, Nov. 13, p. 1. Council on Education of the Deaf. 1976. Resolution on individualized educational programming for the hearing impaired (deaf and hard-of-hearing). Volta Review, 78: 302 (news note). Craig, H. B. 1965. A sociometric investigation of the self-concept of the deaf child. American Annals of the Deaf, 110: 4 5 6 - 7 4 . Craig, W. N., and Salem, J. M. 1975. Partial integration of deaf with hearing students: Residential school perspective. American Annals of the Deaf, 120: 28-36. Craig, W. N., Salem, J. M., and Craig, H. B. 1976. Mainstreaming and partial integration of deaf with hearing students. American Annals of the Deaf, 121: 63-68. Dale, D. 1974. Language Development in Deaf and Partially Hearing Children. Springfield, 111.: Charles C. Thomas. Danahy, R. 1970. A parent's challenge to educators and parents. Volta Review, 72: 153-55. Denton, D. M. 1971. Educational crises. Operation Tripod. Northridge, Calif.: Department of Special and Rehabilitative Education, San Fernando Valley State College. Pp. 32-37. Di Carlo, L. M. 1964. The Deaf. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. Drumm, P. R. 1972. "Total Communication" Volta Review, 74: 564-69. Dyer, H. S. 1966. The discovery and development of educational goals. Paper presented at the Educational Testing Service Invitational Conference on Testing Problems, New York City, October 29, 1966. Education of the Deaf: A Report to the Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare by His Advisory Committee on the Education of the Deaf. 1965. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. Ellis, A. 1972. Emotional education in the classroom: The living school. Journal of Clinical Child Psychology, 1 (Fall): 19-22. Fay, E. A., Ed. 1875. Notice of publications. American Annals of the Deaf, 20: 116-20. Fay, E. A., Ed. 1889. Methods of instruction in American schools. American Annals of the Deaf, 34: 64-69. Fisher, B. 1971. Hearing impaired children in ordinary schools. Teacher of the Deaf, 69: 161-74. Furth, H. G. 1966. Thinking without Language. New York: Free Press. Furth, H. G., and Wachs, H. 1974. Thinking Goes to School: Piaget's Theory in Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Garretson, M. D. 1976. Total communication. In R. Frisina, Ed., A Bicentennial Monograph on Hearing Impairment: Trends in the U.S.A. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Pp. 8 8 - 9 5 .

147

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G o o d m a n , M . E . 1967. The Individual and Culture. H o m e w o o d , III.: Dorsey Press. G o u g h , J. A . 1968. V i e w f r o m the foot of the hill. Volta Review, 70: 4 5 8 - 5 9 . G r a m m a t i c o , L. F . , and Miller, S. D. 1974. C u r r i c u l u m for the preschool deaf child. Volta Review, 76: 2 8 0 - 8 9 . G r e e n b e r g , J . , and Doolittle, G . 1977. C a n schools speak the l a n g u a g e of the d e a f ? New

York Times

Magazine,

D e c e m b e r 11, 1977, pp. 5 0 f f .

G r i s h a m , J. 1974. Parent organizations: Six important questions. In P. M . C u l t o n , E d . , Operation Tripod: Toward Rehabilitation Involvement by Parents of the Deaf. W a s h i n g t o n , D . C . : U . S . G o v e r n m e n t Printing O f f i c e . Pp. 5 4 - 5 8 . Hart, B. O . , and C o r y , P. B. 1968. T h e contribution of library resources to a c a d e m i c c u r r i c u l u m . Volta Review, 70: 4 6 0 - 6 4 . H e r b e r t , W . 1977. ( S e p t . / O c t . ) : 8. H i g g i n s , E.

Bilingual

education

missing

the

m a r k ? APA

Monitor,

8

1973. An analysis of the comprehensibility of three c o m m u n i c a t i o n

m e t h o d s used with hearing impaired students. American 1 18: 4 6 - 4 9 . H o d g s o n , K. W . Library.

1953. The Deaf

and

Their

Problems.

Annals

of the

Deaf,

N e w York: Philosophical

H o l c o m b , R. K. 1972. T h r e e years of the total approach: 1 9 6 8 - 1 9 7 1 . Proceedings of the Forty-fifth Meeting of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf. W a s h i n g t o n , D . C . : U . S . G o v e r n m e n t Printing O f f i c e . Pp. 5 2 2 - 3 0 . J e n s e m a , C. 1975. A deaf adult speaks out: A note on the educational a c h i e v e m e n t of O D A S m e m b e r s . Volta Review, 77: 1 3 5 - 3 7 . J o r d a n , I. K . , G u s t a s o n , G . , and R o s e n , R. 1976. Current c o m m u n i c a t i o n trends at p r o g r a m s for t h e d e a f . American Annals of the Deaf, 121: 5 2 7 - 3 2 . J o r d a n , I. K . , G u s t a s o n , G . , and R o s e n , R. 1979. An update on c o m m u n i c a t i o n trends at p r o g r a m s for the d e a f . American Annals of the Deaf, 124: 3 5 0 - 5 7 . K e n n e d y , P . , Northcott, W . , M c G a u l e y , R . , and W i l l i a m s , S. M . 1976. Longitudinal sociometric and cross-sectional data on m a i n s t r e a m i n g hearing impaired children: implications for preschool p r o g r a m m i n g . Volta Review, 78: 7 1 - 8 1 . K i d d , J. 1977. Parents and Public L a w 94-142. Volta Review,

79: 2 7 5 - 8 0 .

K i o p p i n g , H. W . E. 1972. L a n g u a g e understanding of deaf students under three auditory-visual stimulus c o n d i t i o n s . American Annals of the Deaf, 117: 3 8 9 - 9 6 . K o p p , H. G . , Ed.

1968. C u r r i c u l u m : Cognition and content. Volta

Review,

70:

372-516. K o p p , H. G . 1972. Cognition and c u r r i c u l u m . In Report of the Proceedings of the Forty-fifth Meeting of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf. (1971 p r o c e e d i n g s . ) W a s h i n g t o n , D . C . : U . S . G o v e r n m e n t Printing O f f i c e . Pp. 268-72. L a n e , H. S. 1976. T h e p r o f o u n d l y deaf: Has oral education s u c c e e d e d ? Volta view, 78: 3 2 9 - 4 0 .

Re-

L a n e , H. S . , and B a k e r , D. 1974. R e a d i n g a c h i e v e m e n t of the deaf: A n o t h e r look. Volta Review,

76: 4 8 9 - 9 9 .

L e i t m a n , A . 1968. T h e w o r k s h o p c l a s s r o o m . Paper presented at the S y m p o s i u m on Research and Utilization of Educational M e d i a in T e a c h i n g the D e a f , L i n c o l n , N e b r a s k a , February 1968.

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Levine, E. S. 1951. Psychoeducational study of children born deaf following maternal rubella in pregnancy. A M.A. American Journal of Diseases of Children, 81 : 1-9. Levine, E. S. 1971. Mental assessment of the deaf child. Volta Review, 73: 8 0 - 9 6 , 97-105. Levine, E. S. 1974. Psychological tests and practices with the deaf: A survey of the state of the art. Volta Review, 76: 289-319. Levine, E. S. 1976. Psychological contributions. In R. Frisina, Ed., A Bicentennial Monograph on Hearing Impairment: Trends in the USA. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Pp. 2 3 - 3 3 . Levine, E. S. 1977. The Preparation of Psychological Service Providers to the Deaf. PRWAD Monograph No. 4. Journal of Rehabilitation of the Deaf. Ling, D. 1972. Statements of panel of reactors on oralism/auralism and "total communication." Volta Review, 74: 552-63. Ling, D., Ling, A. H., and Pflaster, G. 1977. Individualized educational programming for hearing-impaired children. Volta Review, 79: 204-30. Linton, R. 1945. The Cultural Background of Personality. New York: AppletonCentury-Crofts. Lloyd, G. T. 1975. Total communication: Some perspectives and potential problems. Deaf American, 27: 13-15. Luterman, D. M. 1976. A comparison of language skills of hearing impaired children trained in a visual/oral method and an auditory/oral method. American Annals of the Deaf, 121: 388-93. McConnell, F. E. 1968. The Bill Wilkerson hearing and speech center. In M. V. Jones, Ed., Special Education Programs within the United States. Springfield, 111.: Charles C. Thomas. Pp. 224-37. McGee, D. I. 1976. Mainstreaming problems and procedures: Ages 6 - 1 2 . In G. Nix, Ed., Mainstream Education for Hearing Impaired Children and Youth. New York: Grune & Stratton. Martin, R. 1979. Educating Handicapped Children: The Legal Mandate. Champaign, 111.: Research Press Company. Maxwell, M. M. 1979. A model for curriculum development at the middle and upper school levels in programs for the deaf. American Annals of the Deaf, 124: 425-32. Meadow, K. P. 1968. Early manual communication in relation to the deaf child's intellectual, social, and communicative functioning. American Annals of the Deaf, 113: 29-41. Meitzer, D. R. 1978. Mainstreaming: As the parent sees it. Volta Review. 80: 109-11. Messerly, C. L., and Aram, D. M. 1980. Academic achievement of hearing-impaired students of hearing parents and of hearing-impaired parents: Another look. Volta Review, 82: 25-32. Moores, D. F. 1972. Communication: Some unanswered questions and some unquestioned answers. In T. J. O'Rourke, Ed., Psycholinguistics and Total Communication: The State of the Art. Washington, D.C.: American Annals of the Deaf. Pp. 1-10.

Educational

Environments

¡49

Moores, D. F., Weiss, K. I., and Goodwin, M. W. 1973. Receptive abilities of deaf children across five modes of communication. Journal of Exceptional Children, 1973 , 2 2 - 2 8 . Moses, C. 1977. Parent advocacy subcommittee. PL 94-142 and Deaf Children, Special Issue, Gallaudet Alumni Newsletter, p. 16. Murphy, H. J., and Fleischer, L. R. 1977. The effects of ameslan versus siglish upon test scores. Journal of Rehabilitation of the Deaf 11: 15-18. Newman, L. 1973. Bilingual education. Deaf American, 25: 12-13. Nix, G. 1975. Total communication: A review of the studies offered in its support. Volta Review, 11: 470-94. Nix, G. W. 1976. Mainstream Education for Hearing Impaired Children and Youth. New York: Grune & Stratton. Nix, G. W. 1977a. The least restrictive environment. Volta Review, 79: 287-96. Nix, G., Ed. 1977b. The rights of hearing-impaired children. Volta Review, 79, Monograph 349. Northcott, W., Ed. 1972. Curriculum Guide: Hearing Impaired Children—Birth to Three Years and Their Parents. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Northcott, W., Ed. 1973. The Hearing Impaired Child in a Regular Classroom: Preschool, Elementary and Secondary Years. Washington, D.C.: Alexander Graham Bell Association for the Deaf. Nyquist, E. B. n.d. Mainstreaming: Idea & actuality. An Occasional Paper. Albany, N.Y.: University of the State of New York, The State Education Department. Owrid, H. L. 1971. Studies in manual communication with hearing impaired children. Volta Review, 73: 4 2 8 - 3 8 . Panel on Educational Research and Development: A Progress Report. 1924. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. Paul, J. L., Turnbull, A. P., Cruickshank, W. M. 1979. Mainstreaming: A Practical Guide. New York: Schocken Books. Peck, B. J., Chairman. 1976. Report of the Resolutions Committee. Proceedings of the Forty-eighth Meeting of the Conference of Executives of American Schools for the Deaf. Rochester, N.Y. Peckham, C. S., Sheridan, M., and Butler, N.Y. 1972. School attainment of sevenyear-old children with hearing difficulties. Developmental Medicine and Child Neurology, 14: 592-602. PL 94-142 and Deaf Children. 1977. Special Issue, Gallaudet Alumni Newsletter. Putnam, G. H. 1896. How to study. American Annals of the Deaf, 41: 265-74. Quigley, S. P. 1969. The Influence of Fingerspelling on the De\

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CD 87

Thematic Apperception Test ( T A T )

7

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Rorschach Test

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5

10

1

0

0

1

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Vineland Social Maturity Scale

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3

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2

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in the perception of gestalt relationships that are associated with organic brain defects, retardation, regression, and personality defects associated with regression. The great popularity of the Bender-Gestalt as a personality test has been attributed to ease and speed of administration. The test serves its clinical function well; but it was not devised to perform personality description in the usual sense of the "personality" concept and is best used in a battery as a diagnostic instrument. 2. Personality Inventories. These instruments present a subject with a list of questions or statements involving personality traits, emotional reactions, interpersonal attitudes and habits, and other behavior styles, to which the subject is expected to give an honest answer on the basis of his own behavioral patterns, preferences, and habits. Two such personality inventories are included in table 12.2: the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory

281

Children and Youth

(MMPI) (Hathaway and McKinley, 1951), and the Sixteen Personality Factor Questionnaire (16 PF) (Cattell and Eber, 1956-1957). 3. "Maturity" Inventories. Such instruments, also of the questionnaire type, are used to assess a subject's level of maturity in various life areas. The Vineland Social Maturity Scale (Doll, 1947), cited in table 12.2, is one such inventory. It is designed to assess an individual's ability to take care of his own practical needs and assume related responsibilities. There is a clear need for much broader information about deaf schoolagers' preparation for life and level of maturity than has been available thus far. Examiners should acquaint themselves with the contents of such inventories, most of which are cited in psychological test catalogues. Where the inventories cannot be used as they stand with deaf school-agers, they can be used as interview guides and also as guides in the design of school life-adjustment curricula. Descriptive

Digests

of Selected

Personality

Tests

The following digests of selected tests from table 12.2 may assist the reader in gauging the suitability of these tests for deaf subjects (the stated age ranges are for nondeaf subjects) and also to consider which ones lend themselves to administration and response in signs or pantomime. 1. Machover Draw-a-Person Test (also called Machover Figure Drawing). Used with ages 2 years and over. Test directions are "to draw a pers o n , " and, on completion of the first drawing, to draw a person of the opposite sex. Afterward, inquiry elicits various items of information about the persons drawn. 2. House-Tree-Person Projective Technique (H-T-P). Used with ages 3 years and over. Test directions are to draw a " h o u s e , " and are repeated for " t r e e " and " p e r s o n . " Then an extensive inquiry is conducted through a series of standardized questions to elicit associations about the subject's home and home life ( " h o u s e " ) , life satisfactions and environment ( " t r e e " ) , and interpersonal relations ("person"). 3. Thematic Apperception Test (TAT). Used with ages 4 years and over. The TAT material consists of 31 cards containing vaguely provocative pictures in black and white plus one blank card. The subject's task is to tell a story about each picture. For the blank card, the subject is asked to do the same for an imaginary picture. Interpretation is based on the individual's needs as exposed by the stories. 4. Rorschach Technique. Used with ages 3 years and over. Test material consists of 10 differently shaped but bilaterally symmetric inkblots, each printed on its own card; 5 are in shades of black and gray, 2 have added touches of red, and 3 are in various pastel colors. The subject is asked to tell what the blots remind him of. Responses are recorded verbatim along with various response-timings, the way the cards are held, and

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numerous other behavioral occurrences. Substantial inquiry is conducted after initial responses to the 10 blots are made. Classic interpretation is based on complex scoring procedures and involves ratios and totals rather than single responses; the outcome is an integrated picture of total personality. 5. The Rotter Incomplete Sentences Blank. Used with adolescents and adults. The first word or words of a sentence are given, and the subject is asked to complete it in a way that expresses his feelings. An overall adjustment score is derived through the test's scoring procedures. This and other sentence-completion tests are valuable for screening purposes and as interview guides. 6. Make a Picture Story (MAPS). Used with ages 6 years and over. Test materials consist of 22 pictorial backgrounds (living room, bedroom, bathroom, schoolroom, etc.) and 67 die-cut figures (male, female, adults, children, minority-group figures, figures with blank faces, nudes, etc.), all held upright by insertion in a wooden base. The examiner places a background before the subject and asks him to choose any figures he wishes to add to the scene and then to make up a story about it. Both scoring and interpretation are complicated procedures, and detailed examples of test interpretation are given in various publications edited by the test constructor. 7. Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI). Used with ages 16 years and over. The inventory is composed of over 500 statements which the subject is asked to classify as true, false, or cannot say. The range of inquiry is extremely wide, covering numbers of psychopathic conditions as well as other areas of behavior and preference. The inventory statements require a rather high literacy and concept level that cannot easily be transposed to signs. The main value of the Inventory is in differential diagnosis; this is facilitated by computerized scoring and computer printouts of diagnostic and interpretive statements descriptive of the subject's personality. The Children's Apperception Test (CAT) and the Symonds PictureStory Test are adaptations of the Thematic Apperception Test, with the CAT using drawings of animals in child-centered human situations; and the Symonds Test, drawings depicting situations of concern to adolescents. A number of other personality tests used in research with the deaf are described in chapter 7. The Missouri Children's Picture Series, the Hand Test, and the Impulse, Ego, Superego (IES) Test, in particular, warrant broader trials. Projective Techniques and the Deaf: Special Considerations As can be seen in table 12.2, the personality tests most preferred for use with deaf school-agers are the projective techniques. By and large, the basic

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principles outlined in the section on General Testing Guides also pertain to projective testing. A number of additional considerations are summarized in this section. Feasible testing age. The "usable age r a n g e s " noted in the projective test digests do not apply to deaf subjects. With the deaf, the rule of thumb for projective testing favors the age range in which response and inquiry are least hampered by lack of expressive language, whether verbal or sign. The safest age-range for such expressive output is in the adolescent years and beyond. There are exceptions, of course. Examiners are therefore advised to language-scan a given subject before proceeding to test, preferably through a preliminary get-acquainted interview rather than a reading achievement test since a reading score will not disclose a subject's expressive facility in the language of signs, which may well suffice for projective test purposes. Certain projective tests are used with very young deaf children, as discussed shortly, but in a less structural manner than required by conventional testing. "Shortcut" testing. For proper use, projective techniques worth their informational salt require special preparation or training (Anastasi, 1961). This involves a considerable expenditure of an examiner's time and effort. To the time and effort so required are added the time and effort taken up by careful testing, scoring, and interpreting. Projective tests can be major consumers of time. As a result, shortcuts are often used. The most common, especially with deaf subjects, are to play down or omit inquiry in tests where it is required, and to bypass scoring by response-scanning. In the hands of less than expert projective testers, these shortcuts rob a test of its psychological teeth, and leave a tester with little more than biased personality fragments. What emerges is a lopsided personality profile, generally skewed toward deficits. The situation argues against the use of complex projective tests by examiners who, by unskilled shortcutting, shortchange their deaf subjects. "Matching" projective tests to subjects. After years of exposure to highly structured school environments and routines, numbers of deaf youths, and adults as well, find it hard to handle the loosely structured items of projective tasks. Some are immobilized by Rorschach inkblots. Others are inhibited by sentence completion because they feel their language is not good enough or they experience difficulty in introspective thinking. Some protest a lack of artistic skill when faced with projective drawing tasks; and others find apperceptive story-telling beyond their imaginative faculties. But whatever the situation, in projective testing as in mental testing, an effort should be made to " m a t c h " test to subject. One way of doing this is to include in the pretest get-acquainted interview such questions as: " H a v e you seen a good movie lately? Can you tell me the s t o r y ? " (apperceptive story possibilities); " D o you like to look at a cloud in

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the sky and imagine what it looks like?" (Rorschach possibilities); "Do you like to draw?" (drawing test possibilities). Answers may provide leads, and again they may not. But some such pretest approach should be tried, for it is always possible that inhibited test-response is due as much to the type of projective test used as to the subject's personality. Another inhibiting factor occasionally arises when the subject is assured that "there are no wrong or right answers; anything you say is right." Deaf subjects know they are being tested; and there must be " w r o n g s " and "rights," or else what's the point in testing? When a deaf subject's facial or other expression protests doubts about the "no wrong and no right" formula, an examiner can offer as evidence: "Many questions have no wrong or right answers. I will tell you some: What color do you like best? Do you like to go to a party? Do you have brothers and sisters?" and so on. On answering such questions, the subject comes to realize that there are indeed situations in which answers cannot be considered right or wrong, that they simply reflect fact or personal views and feelings. With this realization comes a lessening of constraints as well as a feel for the nature of projective response. Although an inhibited response pattern (even with a matched test) in itself discloses certain personality traits, it is important to know the rest of the personality picture, the part hiding behind the response-inhibiting defense. Toward this end, I apply generous praise, encouragement, and "tell me mores" where it appears safe to chip away at the defense. Since there are no right or wrong answers in projective testing, in contrast to mental testing, this praise procedure is justified by its purpose. However, the need for extra encouragement is noted in recording and reporting. Childhood projective testing. Projective techniques customarily used with young children take the form of doll-family sets and play-kit tests that include such articles as dolls representing children and adults of both sexes and various age levels, household furnishings, outdoor objects, animals, and other related materials. Some are interpreted through a scoring system, and others inferentially. The assumption in projective play is that a child projects various personality traits and attitudes in its selection and arrangement of the play materials into a kind of mini-story. Interpretation of what the child projects is helped by the child's accompanying remarks or explanations concerning such matters as whom the doll figures represent, what they are doing, to whom and why, and by the child's emotional investments in the scenarios. When the techniques are used with young deaf children, examiners need to be alert for influencing variables. One is a young deaf child's customary reaction to a display of toys and dolls by an examiner. Often, the child's first thought is that this is a language lesson, and the child begins by naming

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the toys. Even after the examiner has managed to get across the idea that the toys are for playing and not for naming, the child's performance may be affected by his original concept, and he may favor toys that he knows by name or from teaching situations. Hence, examiners must enforce the " p l a y " concept even to participating to a limited extent in play until the child is able to play freely on his own. Other influencing variables include the relatively limited range of a young deaf child's life experiences on which to build stories, the locale in which play is conducted, the examiner's watchful gaze, the child's mood at the time, and affective experiences immediately preceding the play activity. A final problem in using toy and play techniques with young deaf children is the communication difficulty of eliciting their explanatory remarks about the stories they are putting together. In view of these many influencing factors, I am inclined to use the play technique as a kind of interview situation rather than as a " t e s t , " relying on the remarkable pantomimic abilities of most young deaf children to tell their stories for them, as illustrated in the later section on Interview. Selective versus routine use. Many problems argue against the use of projective techniques for routine personality-testing with deaf schoolpopulations. A more feasible procedure would be to conduct routine personality-screening by means of a good behavior-rating instrument such as the Meadow-Kendall Social-Emotional Inventory for Deaf Students, devised by Kathryn P. Meadow and standardized on a deaf pupil population. Projective techniques could then be used selectively as diagnostic aids with those pupils rated as emotionally disturbed. The projective instruments so used should be carefully chosen tests of established worth, and should be conscientiously administered, scored, and interpreted. Personality

Self-Report

Inventories

and the

Deaf

With hearing populations, verbal self-report personality inventories are considered great time-savers. They can be self- as well as group-administered, much as achievement tests. Scoring is routinized and often computerized, as in the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, and interpretation follows well-defined lines. However, these advantages do not hold for a deaf clientele. Some of the weaknesses of verbal personality inventories were noted in chapter 7. Major deterrents to their use with deaf subjects are the time and effort involved in the exhaustive task of rewording test language, screening and simplifying elusive concepts, and detecting and discarding obviously inappropriate items. A case in point is an item from the Sixteen Personality Factor Questionnaire: " D o you think that most of us have so many faults that unless people are charitable to one another life would be intolerable?" Even if such statements could be successfully adapted to an average deaf in-

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dividual's understanding, we are still left with the question of whether any personality inventory that has undergone such drastic reconditioning could measure with the deaf what it was constructed to measure with the hearing. This is not to say that no deaf people are able to take such inventory tests. Many exceptional deaf persons can do so. But even at this level, how is a deaf individual to answer such questions from the MMPI as: " M y hearing is apparently as good as that of most p e o p l e , " or " M y speech is the same as always (not faster or slower, or slurring; no hoarseness)"? To answer truthfully would be to risk giving a " m a l a d j u s t e d " response simply because it would not coincide with that expected of an " a d j u s t e d " hearing person. In my opinion, if verbal personality inventories are used with the deaf, they are best used in an exploratory way and should be individually administered and studied. Even the use of manual communication will not override their structural inadequacies as clinical instruments with the deaf-at-large, whether school-age or adult. Interpreting Personality

Test

Findings

Problems of interpreting the results of hearing-standardized personality tests when used with deaf subjects are compounded by current issues and problems in personality testing per se. A number have been noted in chapter 7. Detailed discussions can be found in current literature on the subject, including the comprehensive summaries in the Annual Review of Psychology publications. The best an examiner can do in preparation for a formal personality examination of a deaf subject is to know personality tests and testing, to know the deaf, and to know how to communicate with deaf persons. Most importantly, examiners need to bear in mind that all personalities have their share of strengths and weaknesses; there is no such thing as a perfect personality. The presence of deviant test response, though perhaps of diagnostic importance, does not necessarily indicate a malfunctioning personality. Such responses may simply indicate a particular test's diagnostically structured focus which has picked up certain weaknesses in what is nevertheless an effectively functioning personality. To know whether deviant responses are diagnostically significant requires a global rather than a trait-oriented personality picture. But personality tests seldom provide the global view. An examiner must therefore fill in the gaps with information from the case history, observation, and interview. In this way, a picture can be obtained that also includes personality strengths. Assessing how well a given personality is likely to function requires balancing the strengths against the weaknesses, with the final assessment the outcome of the ratio between the two. My admiration for the Rorschach technique

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stems from this system of weighing and balancing in personality scoring and interpretation. Finally, whatever the test used, identifying positive personality components is generally more important than stressing the negatives, as too often happens. Not only do the positives provide the impetus for managing everyday affairs, they also serve as key supports in counseling and therapy. They must be identified in personality test protocols and interpretation, and included in reporting. In view of the shaky position personality tests occupy in use with the deaf, such identification means that after a test protocol is scored and interpreted according to standardized procedure, it must be reinterpreted in accordance with the examiner's judgment of which responses, while abnormal for hearing subjects, are nevertheless in line with a deaf subject's background of fashioning experiences. There are no established guides for this reinterpretation procedure. It is a tricky business and depends almost entirely on an examiner's "knowing" the deaf. But it will indicate roughly the proportion of deviant responses that are more closely related to exogenous factors imposed by the deaf environment than to endogenous deviations in personality. Achievement Testing

Achievement tests are used in school settings to measure a pupil's level of proficiency in school subjects, generally in terms of a grade score. Tests are available from primary through adult levels but are most heavily used at the intermediate level. The principal measurement targets are language (word knowledge, word discrimination, spelling, reading, language usage, etc.), and arithmetic (computational and problem-solving abilities). Social studies and science are commonly included for upper grade levels, and additional, achievement-like tests or inventories for school-agers are available for such special areas as social insight, health knowledge, and sex knowledge; many more can be found in psychological test catalogues. Achievement

Tests Used

with Deaf

School-agers

Table 12.3 rank-lists achievement tests reported as used with deaf school-agers by respondents to a survey of psychological practices with the deaf (Levine, 1974). All the tests listed were standardized on hearing populations. They are briefly described in the following digests. 1. Wide Range Achievement Test (WRAT), 1976 edition. An easily administered and rapidly scored time-saver that measures level of achievement in the basic scholastic skills of reading, spelling, and arithmetic in the age range from 5 years through adult. 2. Stanford Achievement Test, 1973 edition, and Metropolitan Achieve-

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EXAMINATION

Table 12.3

GUIDES

Achievement Tests in Rank Order (n = 166 Respondents) Special School

Regular School

Other Agency

C

3

, » Name of Test Wide Range Achievement Test

3 0) er

^ TD Q

S O i2

ö